


The Were & the Nightwalker

by okapi



Series: The Were & the Nightwalker [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Blood Drinking, M/M, POV Alternating, Rats, Vampire Sherlock, Vampires, Werewolf John Watson, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:42:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 21,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22722613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Holmes is a vampire. Watson is a werewolf.Chapter 28.Writing on the Smoke.Mary Sutherland learns the truth.World-building stand-alone chapters in the same Victorian AU asThe Were of the Baskervilles. Chapters are not continuous.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The Were & the Nightwalker [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1633969
Comments: 271
Kudos: 133
Collections: Start Reading





	1. The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stamford introduces Watson to Holmes. 
> 
> For the DW [slashficlets](https://slashficlets.dreamwidth.org/) prompt 01: The Beginning.

Our beginning began with a beautiful man.

Not Holmes. And certainly not me.

Stamford.

‘Beautiful’ is the word used by English-speaking vampires, werewolves, and other beings to describe humans who have no notion that supernatural entities exist among them. No one has ever been able to provide me with a convincing history of the term, but it must have been borne of poets because it gives rise to sighing ‘Oh, I was beautiful once’ or ‘my heart’s desire is more beautiful than the stars’ and other lamentations on the part of those who are not asleep to the many variations between life and death. Being beautiful is a state of genuine and, perhaps, blissful, ignorance; some superstitious humans may be considered beautiful because they fear and ward against what they do not genuinely understand, sometimes employing the most fantastic means to do so, and the number of humans who have lost their beauty without being conscripted into the ranks of one of our orders is very few. Thus, most humans are beautiful.

Stamford was beautiful. Very beautiful. Only a very beautiful human would have introduced a werewolf like myself to a vampire like Sherlock Holmes about the prospect of sharing lodging.

Vampires and werewolves do not mix.

Vampires are few and powerful. Werewolves are, by comparison, many, enough to establish a quarter of their own in a large metropolis like London, and not so powerful, in truth, save one night a month. Vampires live alone. Werewolves, for the most part, prefer to spend time and money with like-formed creatures.

I recognised the unmistakable scent long before Stamford and I reached the threshold to the chemical laboratory at Barts hospital. Weres, which is what I and most of my kind call ourselves, find the aroma of nightwalkers, the term Holmes uses to refer to himself and his kind, repugnant, disgusting, foul, etcetera, and I’ll admit, at first, my nostrils flared violently. But as I breathed, I quickly became accustomed to the fragrance. It settled into a miasma of sweet-smelling liquorice.

The only figure in the lofty chamber sprang to his feet at our arrival, shouting, “I’ve found it, a re-agent which is precipitated by haemoglobin, and by nothing else!”

That a vampire might be interest in human blood was no surprise. It also shed light on certain aspects of Stamford’s description of this personage: cold-blooded, prone to odd displays.

“Doctor Watson, Sherlock Holmes,” said Stamford, introducing us, beautifully.

“How are you?” said Sherlock Holmes. “You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive.”

“Yes,” I replied slowly. Our eyes met and we exchange a glance before both turning our eyes toward Stamford. The glance spoke volumes.

_I know what you are, and you know what I am, but how are we to handle him?_

“No doubt you see the significance of this discovery of mine, Doctor Watson?”

“Interesting,” I said, noncommittally.

Sherlock Holmes went on to expound the uses of the test, and I admit he made his case as to its importance, but then he announced he would give us a demonstration.

“A bit of blood, if I may, from one of you gentlemen?”

Really, I thought, this was too much! To offer a vampire your blood voluntarily was certain suicide, but heedless of my cry of alarm, Stamford, the blessedly beautiful creature, extended his hand and index finger without a qualm.

And, what’s more, Sherlock Holmes took a sample and offered Stamford a plaster without so much as a ‘by your leave!’

My mouth hung open as Sherlock Holmes went about his test.

“I see I’ve disturbed you, Doctor,” he remarked as he threw into the vessel a few white crystals and then added some transparent fluid, adding cheekily, “I have been told I have that effect.”

He was right. I’d never known that vampires could be exposed to even a drop of fresh human blood without succumbing to their primal natures. To see him blithely experimenting with Stamford’s blood and showing no signs of drinking from him came as a huge shock. I was dumbfounded but managed to make the appropriate noises of admiration at the conclusion of the test.

“We came here on business,” said Stamford. “My friend here wants take diggings.”

Sherlock Holmes and I engaged in an encore of our earlier exchange, and I realised that we both liked Stamford enough to continue with the charade for his benefit.

“I have my eye on a suite in Baker Street which would suit us down to the ground. You don’ t mind the smell,” Sherlock Holmes paused slightly, but just slightly, then added, “of strong tobacco?”

I realised, somewhat to my own surprise, that I did not, in fact, mind the scent of him.

“I always smoke a ‘ship’s’ myself,” I replied evenly.

His lips twitched. “I generally have chemicals about and occasionally do experiments. Would that annoy you?”

“By no means.”

He was studying me now, and Stamford, without moving, faded in the background.

“Let me see—what are my other shortcomings?”

I shot him a wry glance that said ‘Besides drinking human blood?’

He dropped his head to one side in acknowledgement of the jab.

“I suffer from melancholy.”

“I keep a bull pup.”

“I keep ungodly hours.”

“So do I. I object to rows because my nerves are shaken.”

He seemed to consider this. “Do you consider violin-playing in your category of rows?”

“Depends on the player. A well-played one is a treat for the gods.”

“Oh, that’s all right then. Call here tomorrow evening, and we’ll go and settle everything.”

We shook hands, and Stamford and I took our leave.

“I’m so glad that’s settled!” cried Stamford when we’d exited the building. “I have a feeling that you two will get along splendidly.”

I thought that was the end of it, and I was, as Stamford and I walked, silently composing the polite note I would send to Holmes the following day cancelling our meeting.

But I was wrong.

That was just the beginning.


	2. The Heart of the Matter.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson's bull pup falls ill. **Warning for the death (sort of!) of a dog.** Angst. 
> 
> For the Holmes Minor February 2020 prompt: heart.

I returned to my room on The Strand with the intention of writing Sherlock Holmes and explaining in polite terms that I was not interested in sharing lodgings. Despite the good intentions of Stamford, who was thoroughly ignorant of the fact that I was a werewolf and Holmes was a vampire and that our kinds never mixed, it simply wouldn’t do.

That was my plan, but when I returned to my room, I found a circumstance which threw all thought of Sherlock Holmes out of my mind.

My puppy was very ill.

I had purchased him just three days prior from a street seller I’d happened to pass in the were quarter. A small, squirmy ball of golden fur, I was drawn to him at once, as I’d read in one of the standard texts on werewolf biology and behaviour was often the case.

I named him Woof.

And now something was terribly wrong with him.

He curled on his side, eyes closed as if sleeping, but his fur was turning wiry and his chest heaved violently. He was hot to the touch and would not drink or eat or even acknowledge me.

I didn’t know what to do.

I place him in a cardboard box padded with linen and went out into the night to find assistance. I headed for the were quarter, of course, but as I was relatively new to the city, or at least that part of the city, and, quite frankly, new to being a werewolf at all, I went rather blind.

“Doctor.”

I stopped. “Mister Holmes!”

“May I be of assistance?”

“I don’t know,” I said, looking down at the box. “My bull pup’s ill.”

“May I?”

I opened the lid and felt my heart in my throat. “Oh, I’m too late! He’s dead!” It’s difficult to convey the depth of the despair I felt.

Holmes asked me some questions about where, when, and from whom I’d bought Woof. When I’d told him the price I’d paid, his eyebrows rose.

“I am afraid you have been horribly deceived, Doctor. If we may,” he gestured to an alley.

Why I followed him, I don’t know.

“What I am about to do is not going to change the creature, it is only going to reveal its true nature.”

He waved a hand over the box and by the light of a crescent moon, I saw not a golden puppy, but an enormous black beetle.

I cried out and dropped the box in horror as the scarab came to life, wriggling its clawed legs. It scurried away into the darkness as Holmes said, with bitterness,

“It is an ugly business to prey on a recently-turned creature’s need for companionship out of pure lucre.”

I was stunned. And more adrift than ever.

“I can offer you a drink at Baker Street,” continued Holmes. “Or there is a very beautiful public house not far from here where no one will know or care what we are.”

“Yes,” I said.


	3. Oath.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How a werewolf came to share quarters with a vampire. 
> 
> For the DW slashficlets comm prompt 03: Oath.

And so it was that Sherlock Holmes and I found ourselves sitting side-by-side of the bar of a public house. The establishment was open very late for its kind, and upon crossing the threshold, my nose caught not a whiff of anything or anyone supernatural, save myself and my companion.

Two pints were soon before us.

As I drank, Sherlock Holmes gently peppered me with questions about the personage who had recently sold me what was a supposed to be a were-pad, that is, a werewolf companion animal. In my case, it was a golden puppy I named Woof. Woof had cost me a dear sum, but I’d come care for him deeply in just a few days.

Woof was not a puppy. One wave of Sherlock Holmes’s vampiric hand showed him to be a grotesque insect in disguise. Finally, the questions ceased.

“That should be enough, Doctor. I don’t know if the fiend operates by night, but even if he doesn’t, I should be able to run him to ground.”

“Oh?”

“If you’ll forgive the metaphor, I am something of a sleuthhound.”

I drank. I sighed. I noticed the level in my companion’s glass descend, but I can’t say I ever saw him put the rim to lips.

“He couldn’t have done that,” I waved a hand, “by himself. Weres are not sorcerers.”

“No. He must get his inventory from a witch or warlock or, perhaps, even one of my kind.”

His kind.

That brought me out of my miasma of sorrow to the earlier issue of sharing lodging. Stamford had introduced the two of us without knowing that I was werewolf and Sherlock Holmes was a vampire and that werewolves and vampires don’t mix.

“Stamford’s intentions were good, but, no, I’m not interested,” I said.

“My scent?”

I chuckled. “No, to be frank, your aroma, though arresting at first, isn’t off-putting. It’s rather like liquorice sweets.” I smiled and added, “Of which I’m fond.”

“Really?” His eyebrows rose and he tapped the bar with the tips of long, elegant fingers. “The landlady of the Baker Street rooms is not beautiful,” he used this term to mean she was aware of supernatural entities living amongst her, “but she is wise, generous, and forbearing.”

I turned my head and looked at him, really studying his face for the first time. Pale skin, of course. Dark hair, slicked to shine. Clean-shaven. Grey eyes, sharp and piercing. Thin, hawk-like nose. Chin that was prominent and square. It was a handsome face that spoke of determination, intellect, and strength of character.

“You want to share rooms?” I asked, the incredulity apparent in my tone.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

His lips twitched. “I don’t know. It’s the question I’ve been asking myself since you and Stamford left the laboratory. I know we kept up the charade in front of Stamford because we both hold him in some regard. He is beautiful, wholly unaware that in the unnatural course of things, a nightwalker and a were would not so much as engage in conversation, much less share quarters. But in that exchange, the one you and I had, I found myself warming to the idea and to you, frankly. And it occurred to me that perhaps such an arrangement would be not impossible, only highly improbable. You are newly turned and haven’t, therefore, fully developed your habits, including the usual prejudices. And that fact that you’re looking for diggings at all tells me you’re quite adrift in terms of kith and kin.”

“That’s the bloody truth,” I said and reached for my glass. “I don’t even have a dog anymore!” I moaned.

“If you stayed in London, you’d migrate to the were quarter.”

“Yes.” I wrinkled my nose and set my glass on the bar. “Us, sharing lodging would be unconventional.”

“Unique, in fact, at least as far as this metropolis is concerned.”

“But…” I looked at him.

“Ah, yes. That. I am willing to swear an oath to never exert my powers upon your person without your express and enthusiastic and well-informed consent.”

I snorted. “An oath of a…”

“Nightwalker,” he supplied. “That is my preferred term.”

I considered how in the laboratory he’d taken a sample of blood from Stamford for his experiment without showing any interest in the red liquid beyond the scientific. I remembered my astonishment at his control.

“Of course,” he continued, bitterness in his voice, “what is the oath of a nightwalker? But I can back my vow with a kind of security.”

“What security?”

He shook his head. “Not until it’s needed.”

I drained my glass in silence.

“I will see these rooms,” I said.

He smiled.

* * *

So desirable in ever way where the apartments, and so moderate did the terms seem when divided between us, and so congenial the landlady, that I was sorely tempted.

And Sherlock Holmes knew it.

“Why?” I asked again.

“Because I like you. And I have a sense, a sense I cannot explain, which is unusual for me, who has a readily explanation for everything, that we would be good company for each other.”

Mired in thought, I wandered to a crate which held books and laboratory equipment.

My eyes landed on the spines of two volumes.

“You have Kettle and Warner!” These were definitive texts on werewolf biology and behaviour.

“Yes.”

“These are very new!”

“One desires to stay current.” He was bending over the desk scribbling on a piece of paper, which he handed to me. “Follow these directions tomorrow. If you are satisfied, return here at dusk and we shall enter into possession. If you are not interested, then, I wish you all the best.”

We shook hands, and I left.

* * *

The following day, according to the note, I collected a flask of holy water from one church and a cross from another. I collected trio of sharp stakes from a curious man at very curious gentleman’s club. A note was included with the last.

**_Trust in acts, not oaths. SH_ **


	4. Warmth. (Rating: Teen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson falls into the Fleet. Hurt/comfort. Feelings shared. No actual smut. 
> 
> This one is further in time than the first three chapters. 
> 
> For the DW slashficlet prompt 02: Warmth and the Watson's Woes February 2020 prompt: fleet.

Warmth. I craved warmth.

Earlier that night, while Holmes and I were in pursuit of a very nefarious character, indeed, I had tipped into the Fleet.

Almost as swiftly as I’d fallen through the darkness and crashed into the river’s murky depths, I was plucked out of the abyss by Holmes. I suppose it was quite the spectacle: the act, I suppose, being much like a fish being scooped out of the surf by the diving sea bird.

The damp had seeped into my bones, taking in its icy grip every nerve and fibre of my being, and by the time I was back in Baker Street, the only histrionic thought in my poor head was that I would never be warm again.

I was wrong, of course.

I suppose that Holmes, being a nightwalker, could have remedied my condition with a wave of his hand or a few mumbled phrases, but since our decision to share lodgings, he’d vowed never to use his powers upon my person without my consent.

“Too bad I’m a werewolf and not a selkie,” I lamented, teeth still chattering. “But I suppose it could be worse. If it were a full moon, Mrs. Hudson would have to battle the lingering smell of wet dog for weeks!”

“Your attempt at levity is admirable, but I am not soothed,” said Holmes. He stripped me of my wet clothes like an anxious mother and wrapped me in a trio of blankets and set me on the bear skin hearth rug.

Mrs. Hudson arrived with a hot toddy just as Holmes, having made no vows of supernatural celibacy with regard to the condition of our fireplace, ignited a roaring blaze with the snap of his fingers.

“Oh, that’s good,” I said, meaning the drink and the fire.

“Thank you,” replied Holmes and Mrs. Hudson.

I don’t know what kind of look she shot him, but his reply was, “I shall take good care of him, I promise.”

“I know you shall.” I did not turn my head, but I am quite certain that last statement was accompanied by a matronly pat on the shoulder. “A speedy recovery, Doctor.”

“Thank you,” I said, placing my nose over the steaming cup and enjoying the heat and the blended aroma of whiskey, lemon, and sugar.

Then I sighed and shook my head at the flames. “I’m sorry my clumsiness prevented you from apprehend the fiend, Holmes.”

“There will be other opportunities. I may go out once you’re settled.”

There was a coldness to his voice that made me turn my head and search his expression, which bore an unusually rubicund glow, a trick of the firelight.

“I am not angry.” He jerked his head. “I am not angry with you,” he clarified. “I was frightened.”

“So was I!”

One corner of his mouth lifted. “I haven’t been frightened in a very long time, Watson. When I saw you fall….” He shuddered, then bit his lip. “I should not want to lose you.”

“I shouldn’t want to be lost.”

“You are so very fragile.”

“You mean mortal.”

“Yes.”

I shrugged and, finding no ready answer, turned back to the fire and my drink.

Holmes took up his violin.

What he played was nothing short of extraordinary. It was as if I could comprehend the whole saga, just from the notes as they climbed and dipped, quickened and lengthened.

Short staccato frenzies and slow, languid bellows.

He was telling the story of the night. The case, the chase, the danger.

Of my falling. Of his fear. Of my rescue.

I finished my drink and set the mug aside on the floor.

The flames danced. I watched, mesmerised, charmed, as Holmes played on.

It seemed to me, but I’ll admit that my faculties were not at their sharpest, that the song ceased to be an epic and became something else.

A love song.

Suddenly, I was warm. Very warm. Very warm in a very particular way.

As soon as I recognised the feeling, I became distressed. I turned my head.

“Holmes, you promised,” I chastened him.

“What?”

“No spells.”

He chuckled softly and raised his hands, still holding bow and instrument, in a gesture of innocence. “You are under the spell of nothing but whiskey and music and the joy of being alive instead of supper for river monsters.”

“Are there monsters in the Fleet?”

He gave nod.

“Dear me.”

“Yes.”

“But back to the other. You aren’t charming me? Seducing me? Warming me?”

“Not by occult means.”

I searched his face for equivocation and found none.

“I want you,” I said, bluntly.

“I want you as well. I have for some time.”

This was news to me.

“How?” I asked. “How do we manage it?”

“Always the practical doctor.” He smiled softly. “We manage it very carefully when the hour arrives. But you are not in a fit state to agree to anything. And I would never forgive myself if I trespassed upon your trust.”

“That’s jolly decent of you.”

He laughed. “No one’s ever called me that!”

My eyelids drooped.

“Rest, Watson.”

“Here?”

“Yes. I am going to go out as soon as you’re asleep, but I’ll return before dawn.”

“Be careful.”

He smiled and offered me some pillows.

I tipped over onto my side and soon fell fast asleep.

* * *

I was awakened only once before Mrs. Hudson announced herself in the morning with a strong pot of coffee and a stern admonition to take myself upstairs and make myself presentable if I wanted any sustenance from her kitchen.

Before that, just before dawn, something else occurred. Perhaps in a dream.

I heard my name. I lifted my head only to find a black cat with grey eyes staring at me.

“Holmes?”

The cat meowed.

I opened the blankets, and the cat made itself at home against my bare chest. I settled back down and fell right back asleep to the sound of a very contented purring and the feeling of warmth.


	5. Change. Gen.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson and Holmes spend a full moon night in a remote moorland. Gen.
> 
> For the DW slashficlets prompt 04: Change.
> 
> Also, bidding is open from now through 29 Feb 2020 GMT for Fandom for Oz and I am offering up to 5000 words of fic or poetry in any fandom that I've written for (that's a lot of howling at the moon and blood-drinking!). Bids start at $10 (US) and go up by fivers and all the money goes to the organization(s) of your choice among the list that are helping those devastated by the Australian wildfires. My page is [HERE](https://ffoz-offerings.livejournal.com/28773.html) and there are many other talented creators offering their services as well.

Weres prefer to spend the night of the full moon out of doors. In London, there are parks which accommodate this preference as well as Hampstead Heath. Some _were_ travel short, or long, distances to more rural locales, and, as might be expected, there is a mushroom business catering to their needs and wants. A few _were_ take it upon themselves in loose organisation to patrol the lupin quarter of London itself, keeping vigil lest other supernatural creatures decide to take advantage of the general absence of occupants and activity.

Holmes had expressed a desire to spend a full moon with me, but he had done so in the most frank, respectful manner imaginable. His motive was curiosity, he confessed, scientific and puerile. He’d had encounters with werewolves in their wolf forms, but they were not, I gathered, amicable ones. He did not begrudge my firm refusal, which was my initial response to his request. While I did not know how my wolf would react to Holmes’s presence, I was more than certain of how other werewolves would react to a vampire in our midst. It was out of the question.

Soon after my rescue from a dip in the Thames, which resulted in a shared confession of sentiments between Holmes and myself, he and I travelled to Devonshire to investigate the disappearance of the creature called Silver Blaze and the death of its attendant John Straker, a tale so grotesque and bizarre it deserves its own telling at a later date. It was the landscape, however, the moorland about King’s Pyland, that suggested itself to me in another way.

I raised the idea on our return to London by the night-express. Of course, Holmes could have spirited himself as well as me—with considerable effort, his, and considerable discomfort, mine—back to London by occult means, but the case had tested us, and we agreed that the quiet, privacy, and soothing motion of a train journey might serve us better than mere speed.

“Holmes, the area to the north of King’s Pyland,” I began. It might have been an oblique beginning to anyone but Sherlock Holmes, who could, without any supernatural effort, read my mind as easily as he did the morning newspaper.

“As desolate and isolated a region as I have ever known,” he remarked, adding with his usual dryness, “and I’ve known a good many.”

“And no _were_ activity that I could discern.”

Holmes shook his head. “No.” His eyes took on an inquisitive glint. “Nor traces of nightwalker.”

He then left me to my thoughts. At last, I said,

“I cannot predict how the wolf will react.”

“The wolf cannot kill me in any way that matters.”

The reply was so typical of him, and so disarming, I had to chuckle.

One corner of Holmes’s mouth rose, and he shot me a most impish look.

* * *

Though still in his human shape, Holmes remained supernaturally still and occultly silent, on hands and knees, with head and gaze drooping towards the ground, as the wolf sniffed him.

Clothing was distraction, and the wolf clawed it away.

Skin. Skin was better. Skin could be licked, was licked, and rubbed.

A cupped hand was raised. Curled fingers were licked.

_Not were. But not prey, either. Or foe. Other, but not other._

_Friend._

How long the interrogation went on, I do not know, but when the wolf was satisfied, a muzzle was dipped beneath Holmes’s head, raising it gently.

The wolf sat.

Holmes’s exploration was a tactile one, his hands mapping the wolf’s body in much the same way the wolf’s tongue had mapped his, and when it seemed he’d finished, he gave voice to a conclusion which was concise and poetic.

“The change is extraordinary.”

The wolf thumped his tale against the ground.

Holmes ventured a caress much like a petting, then a scratch behind the ears.

More thumping.

The wolf’s gaze lifted as the clouds parted to reveal a beautiful round moon, then the touch was shaken off.

A single bark shattered the silence of the night.

“CHANGE!”

The wolf then faced a raven, which hopped from one side to the other, showing off its inky black plumage which did, indeed, catch the glittering, quicksilver moonlight beautifully.

A slight and delicate sniffing of the bird was returned with an equally slight and delicate peck of the wolf’s muzzle.

The wolf woofed. The raven did its best imitation of the sound. And then they sprang together, flying and running across the vacant moorland, side by side.

* * *

Were are at their most vulnerable when they are changing back, that is, returning to their human form. They are losing the strength and the sensibilities of the wolf and yet are not fully in possession of the faculties of the human.

I dressed in the secluded hollow that Holmes and I had selected for the purpose and found in my rucksack, among the provisions for breakfast and fare for a return journey, a missive in Holmes’s elegant, spidery hand. It gave off the tell-tale scent of liquorice sweets.

_Watson,_

_My gratitude is limitless. I haven’t the words to thank you for the trust that you and the wolf placed in me. Tonight satisfied my unnatural curiosity in as much as that avaricious beast can be ever sated. I hope I don’t offend you by requesting, at least for the near future, that the experience be unique. It is not for lack of enjoyment, and I think you do not doubt my sheer joy at romping by your side, but that leaving you as I must, that is, being forced by my nature to abandon you when you are in most need of my protection, is a distress I would rather experience at a distance._

_A servant, never humble, but always yours._

_Holmes_

Inside the folded page was a single black feather, and I didn’t need to be a nightwalker to understand the significance of the token.

Holmes had given me part of himself.


	6. Joy. (First kiss. Gen.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First kiss. Gen. Holmes POV.
> 
> For the DW slashficlets prompt 05: joy

The first time, Watson cradled my face in his hands, holding my head still as his lips neared, then sweetly, slowly, pressed against mine. I felt the brush of his moustache against my skin, a soft scratching that is, in my mind, forever yoked with joy.

It was a joy to be kissed by Watson that first time, and indeed, it is a joy every time our lips meet.

I am surprised by the joy every time, too, just as Watson is surprised every time I draw a logical conclusion from a smudge or a splatter of mud.

I am surprised, and I should not be because joys, tiny and grand, like surprises, have been part of us from the beginning.

I was surprised Watson even crossed the threshold of the hospital laboratory the evening Stamford introduced. One sniff must’ve told him what I was. The only _weres_ who sought out my company were clients, and they only did so with an undisguised blend of desperation, disgust, and fear.

Watson and I put on a show for the oblivious Stamford. The banter was easy and genial, with exchanged glances like those of a mother and father good-naturedly indulging the whim of a child.

Later that evening, I had planned to meet Watson alone, to find him where he was staying, his cuffs and shoes and coat narrowed my search to hotels on a certain section of The Strand, and to discuss the matter of shared lodgings. I did not expect to find him open to the suggestion, but I felt it was worth the attempt.

I did not expect to run into him on the street in such a distressed state.

He’d been the victim of a cruel and costly swindle.

It was then that I realised why circumstance might favour a partnership between Watson and myself.

Watson was new.

He was new to being a _were_ and new to being a _were_ in London. If left to the natural, or unnatural, order of things, he would migrate to lodgings in the lupin quarter and slowly come under the influence of prevailing prejudices, attitudes, and practices among _were_.

He was just at the point of finding somewhere to settle.

I guided him toward the neutral territory of a public house frequented only by humans.

We sat side-by-side on stools and talked.

And that was a joy, a quiet, understated joy.

I have had many pleasant conversations, but very rarely with creatures who know precisely what I am.

An even more significant joy came later, on our journey from the pub to Baker Street so that Watson might view the rooms.

Part of the road was being torn up. Cabs and carts and pedestrians were swerving and dodging the construction as best they could.

A hansom lunched toward us.

I reached for Watson just as he leapt towards me.

Then.

Then.

Then Watson curled his in mine, and I lead him quickly round the obstacle. Then he released me, and we carried on our way. Conversation died naturally.

For my part, I could barely speak for the overwhelming sensation that someone, and, of all creatures, a _were_ , had touched me, voluntarily, without fear or repulsion or any negative display.

Watson had touched me in a very ordinary way.

As if I were a very ordinary fellow.

As if I were someone to be trusted.

As if I were a friend.

Nightwalkers don’t have friends. We have associates, we have enemies, and we have supper.

As Watson and I climbed the stairs, I made a silent resolution to study Kettle and Warner, the definitive texts on _were_ behaviour and biology, more closely and to find out as much as I could about Watson’s condition.

A day-walking partner would be very good for business. A doctor, a soldier, even better.

And a friend? A companion?

That would be joy.

My enthusiasm for the prospect grew with every passing moment. I tried to maintain a cool reserve but could not resist showing off by throwing a blazing fire in the fireplace of 221B with the snap of my fingers.

Watson laughed heartily, and robust pink, a colour to which I am, by my nature and its source, drawn, flushed up his face. His eyes lit.

“Now that’s a bending of the elements I appreciate!” he ejaculated. He was still chuckling as he approached the fire with outstretched hands.

I tried very hard not to smile, but I’d made someone laugh!

I wanted Watson to say ‘yes’ so desperately that I was sorely tempted to influence his response through occult means, but then I remembered how he’d just been tricked and hurt by the _were_ -pard vendor, the one who’d sold him vermin in the spellbound guise of a puppy, and all thoughts of deceit left me.

Watson is the gambler of our little household, not I. Nevertheless, in that moment, I doubled down. I put all my chips on the table.

I did something no nightwalker has done in all of history: I gave him instructions so that he might collect the means of my destruction.

He did collect them. He is a good-natured soul, but he is not, in fact, stupid.

And he said ‘yes.’

Words fail to describe my joy when I found him the following evening curled in an armchair, pouring over the latest edition of Kettle.

“Good morning, Mister Holmes,” he said cheerily.

“Good evening, Doctor Watson,” I replied just as blithely.

That evening led to other evenings. And conversations. And puzzles. And long rambles that begin at midnight and end just before dawn.

And kisses.

Our mouths meet, sweetly, slowly at first, but _weres_ prefer to nuzzle and lick and soon my neck is being nosed and my jaw tasted.

I am always tempted to wrap Watson in my arms and perform my best pyrotechnics.

Fly. Swoon. Make the stars explode and rain down about us.

But no.

I savour the simple joy of the kiss. And kiss him back.


	7. Dirty. (Blood-drinking. Rating: Teen.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time Holmes returns to 221B after feeding. Holmes POV. Rating: teen for murder and blood. 
> 
> For the DW slashficlets prompt #6: dirty.

Blood drinking is often a dirty business, and any nightwalker who claims otherwise is lying.

Sometimes it’s possible to slake one’s thirst without any staining of one’s garments, but not every time, and oftentimes, it’s a literal bloodbath.

There is a curious, arcane rule that forbids nightwalkers from washing, by occult or corporal means, the blood that they themselves spill. This creates a cottage industry for char-witches and seamstress-witches who wash and repair nightwalkers’ garments. There is no rule that says nightwalkers can’t sew a tear or darn a sock, we’re just rather lazy in that respect.

At some point in their existence, all nightwalkers test their limits when it comes to feeding. I feed about once a month. I can go for as long as four months, but the longer I postpone it, the less controlled I become.

Eventually Watson and I fell into a pattern by which I fed on full moon nights when he was occupied with his change, but in the very beginning, when everything was new and uncertain, when we were just finding our footing, such an arrangement hadn’t occurred to us.

I’d skipped feeding the first month that Watson was in residence at 221B but knew I’d better not skip another.

I chose a night when Watson was staying late at his club. I’d left before he returned and stayed out much of the night, hunting my prey. I’d found a good candidate and chased him into Regent’s Park. It wasn’t elegant or graceful or any of the romantic descriptors. He flailed. He fought. My shirt was an absolute fright. I looked like I worked in an abattoir. Thankfully, I’d hung my cloak on a tree branch and was able to throw the garment over my bloodied shirt for the short walk home.

As I climbed the stairs, I heard a book slide from a lap and hit the rug and Watson’s voice asking urgently,

“Holmes, are you all right?! I smell a lot of…!”

We faced each other.

Watson’s nostrils quivered as he looked at my face, then my chest.

“How foolish of me,” he mumbled. “It isn’t your blood.”

Awkward doesn’t begin to describe it. The situation reduced me to stating the obvious, which I don’t enjoy.

“I fed,” I said.

“Yes, of course.”

“I’ve been researching an alternate source of sustenance,” I said apologetically, “but I’ve not had much success yet.”

“Right, right, of course, sorry.”

I really wished I hadn’t made a vow not to influence Watson’s behaviour because what I wanted most in the world was for him to go to bed so I could take off my cloak and not further traumatise him by the sight of my shirt and the stains that I could feel dampening my skin.

But he just stood there, immobile, staring.

So, with no other option, I took off my cloak.

“That is a lot of blood!”

“Yes.” I told him about the rule. “Mrs. Hudson takes care of it.”

“She’s a wonder!”

I smiled and heartily agreed.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I said gently. I eased around him.

Watson’s eyes were on me as I moved toward my bedroom, which is like any other bedroom except that I don’t sleep there.

For some reason, perhaps it was the intensity and persistence of Watson’s gaze, I left the door wide open.

_Let him see._

_If he runs screaming into the night…_

_If he packs up his things and is gone at dawn…_

_Well, what did I expect, really?_

I did not expect what happened. Watson surprises me as much as I surprise him, and that’s the truth.

I turned my back to him and tore off my shirt and undershirt and deposited them in a leather satchel.

Watson approached the threshold. He made a show of knocking on the open door.

“It is I who need an invitation from you,” I said, keeping my voice light and good-naturedly amused. “Not the other way around.” He just stared. “But do, come in, please.”

He went to the washstand.

He poured the water. He moistened a rag.

He looked me in the eye once, inquiry in his gaze.

I didn’t say a word. I didn’t dare. I simply nodded.

He was gentle. It’s difficult to put into words just how such gentleness, when I am so accustomed to a world of violence and fear, affected me. It was like a dream. A very, very good dream. A dream that I did not want to end.

Also, I don’t know if Watson was even aware of the look in his eyes as he washed my chest and arms.

It was the first time I thought my feelings, _all_ my feelings, for him might be reciprocated.

We might be lovers as well as fellow lodgers and partners and friends. Watson definitely appeared to be open to the notion on some level.

But as he finished, as I was about to comment on it, on everything, thank him, perhaps even kiss him, the carnality in his gaze vanished only to be replaced by a heavy weariness that made him look decades older.

Really, the transformation was somewhat startling.

He swallowed, wrung out the rag and set it on the washstand, and murmured,

“I couldn’t sleep. The other night…you were playing the violin…it helped…I thought maybe I’d trouble you to…”

“Of course. You look done in. Stretch out on the sofa. I’ll put a fresh shirt and come at once.”

Relief washed over his countenance, and I melted.

I vowed to play for him every night for the rest of eternity.

He was out by the third bar, but I kept on playing until the changing light threatened my very existence.

I waited so long I had only time to rest the bow and instrument in the seat of my armchair before scampering downstairs.

I tucked into my resting place, closing the lid just as the first tendrils of dawn were unfurling.

And I rested, contented and clean.


	8. Makeup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** Makeup  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Length:** 500  
>  **Notes:** Using Merriam-Webster online Dictionary definition 1b of makeup: physical, mental, and moral constitution. For the DW Holmes Minor monthly prompt: make up.  
> Summary: Watson faces discrimination and harassment from the _were_ community for his association with Holmes.

“Excuse me,” I said.  
  
The _were_ blocked the entrance to the public house. His nostrils flared. “They don’t serve to the likes of you, Doctor,” he wheezed.  
  
Instinctively, my upper lip curled, exposing one canine, but I said evenly, “You know my name, or at least my profession, but I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.”  
  
“Every _were_ in the lupin quarter’s heard of the were doctor who’s taken up with the vampy. Why don’t you have a pint of blood with your pal?”  
  
I sniffed and studied my boots and tapped the pavement with my walking stick, ignoring the shadow of a large rodent which scurried by.  
  
I listened to the _were_ ’s ragged breath, then said,  
  
“The makeup of a nightwalker is as complex as that of a were. Their physical, mental, and moral constitution is as varied as ours. If you come to Mister Sherlock Holmes for help with a problem, with even a seemingly insolvable dilemma, he will help you—”  
  
“Help himself to all m’ blood, you mean!” cried the were, making to laugh but ending up by coughing.  
  
“Just as if you come to me,” I removed a card from my case and tucked it into his front pocket, “about your wretched asthma, there are some things I will do to help you, regardless of how narrow-minded and foul you are. Good evening, sir.”  
  
I turned and headed straight for Baker Street.

* * *

“I’m sorry, Watson.”  
  
“For what?” I retorted as I hung my coat on the rack.  
  
“For the ill treatment you received on account of your association with me.”  
  
“Holmes!” I looked down at my trousers, then at my shirt cuffs; then I turned abruptly and examined my overcoat. “How in the blazes can you know what befell me this evening?”  
  
“It’s evident from your tone and terseness that you’re distracted, even disturbed, but there is not a sign about your person to indicate the source.”  
  
“Then how did you know?”  
  
“I have a small gang of helpers, creatures of the street who, over time, have proven their reliability as well as their utility. They can, and do, go anywhere in the city. They supply me with information. They have, on occasion, proven indispensable, especially when a case requires daylight information gathering. I pay them mere peanuts.”  
  
“Spies?”  
  
“Informants. I called them the ‘Baker Street Irregulars.’ It’s a badge they wear with some distinction, I imagine, among their peers.”  
  
“And one of these Irregulars told you of my encounter at the Ewe and Lamb?”  
  
“He did. Billy Wiggins, the cleverest of the lot, quite rightly, supposed it would be worth his while to recount the incident to me. He got a fine hunk of Stilton for his troubles.”  
  
“You paid him in cheese!”  
  
“Well, he is a rat.”  
  
My palm smacked my forehead, and I began to chuckle.  
  
“Holmes!”  
  
Holmes laughed with me. “Normally, of course, I pay him…”  
  
“Peanuts.”  
  
Holmes nodded, grinning. “A pint at the Toad Beneath the Harrow?”  
  
“Yes, by God!”


	9. Letter. (Rating: Teen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes writes a love letter. Watson responds. Epistolary. Massage. Rating: Teen. 
> 
> For the DW slashficlets prompt #7. Letter.

_My dearest Watson,_

_I shall begin with candor. This is an exceedingly sentimental letter. After, or, indeed, before, having read it you wish to destroy it, you need only press your thumb to the fleur-de-lis in the top left corner. Please don’t attempt to throw it into the fire; nightwalker correspondence is impervious and, at times, spectacularly indignant to flame._

_I am penning this missive with my thoughts, the quill itself is moving like an occult marionette on the vellum lying prostrate on the desk. Accordingly, when I have unburdened myself sufficiently, the paper shall fold itself neatly and slip itself neatly into an envelope, which will, in turn, tuck itself neatly into the pocket of your stalwart dressing gown. A veritable writing desk fantasia, but a necessary arrangement, as I shall not move my person from the sofa until rosy-fingered dawn demands it._

_Your head is on my lap, and you are sleeping peacefully. It is a tableau that appeals so much I shall disturb it, abandon it, only on pain of dissolution._

_I can’t help but suspect that the resurgence of pain in your shoulder tonight was somehow related to the case which resolved itself earlier in the evening. The Abernetty family is a macabre collection of creatures, and I daresay the details of the case, and its gruesome conclusion, are the fodder nightmares. You showed remarkable courage and stoicism during the case itself, but perhaps the darkness has left its mark on you in other ways, like water seeking a fissure in the solid rock._

_I may be completely in error, however; perhaps it Is some other phenomena, like a change in barometric pressure, which has affected you._

_Regardless of the reason, you were pained tonight. I trespassed on your patience by not allowing you to rest when we returned to our Baker Street rooms but thrust you directly into the role of audience for my chemistry demonstration, specifically the preparation of an emollient. I am quite certain by the end of it you knew my objective and my rationale for insistence on your observation._

_I wanted you to see there was nothing occult in the unguent and I wanted you to allow me to apply said salve to your person._

_I suspect that witnessing your penny drop will never grow old, my dear man. It truly resembles something round and weighty has plunked down in the centre of your face, then awareness ripples out in growing concentric rings of wonders._

_I would’ve taken you at your word, Holmes._

_You shouldn’t. The word of a nightwalker is not worth the ink with which it is written. Just ask the inkwell._

_My scheme was mostly motivated by genuine concern for your wellbeing, but a small part of it was pure seduction. I wanted to show you just how useful my fingers, those long, elegant fingers about which you expound so flatteringly in your chronicles, could be._

_And I congratulate myself that I succeeded on both counts._

_I confess to no little pride at the speed with which you divested yourself of your shirt and the fact, after a while, you felt the need to pinion your bottom lip beneath your top teeth to prevent sounds from escaping your lips._

_The application of the salve did bring you relief, and that is reward in and of itself._

_But when I gently urged you not to censor yourself and you, taking my words to heart and perhaps lower organs, released a stream of vulgar obscenities sprinkled with what can only be described as whorish moans, that was, well, enough to make a singularly chivalrous creature reconsider his stance on ravishing._

_Then, the utterances dried up. You turned to me with eyes that were glazed and half-lidded. You fitted yourself snugly against my chest while I continued to dig the pads of my fingers into your flesh._

_Measure by measure, I felt your body relax. No were in the world would believe it possible outside the state of enthrallment or exsanguination. But your heart still beats in your chest, I hear it. Your blood still pumps through your vessels, I hear it, too._

_I guided you to a recumbent position, and you fell into a sound sleep, your head pillowed on my thigh._

_With a wave of a hand, I draped a blanket over your shoulders and settled down to simply enjoy the moment, and, of course, be on hand if the Abernetty affair does, in fact, surface in your sleeping state, either as pain in your shoulder or a shadowy dream terror._

_I wonder, I hope that perhaps there will be other nights such as this one and perhaps you will allow me similar liberties and perhaps, well, there will be different endings. Passionate endings. Endings where we discover precisely how two such disparate creatures such as you and I might find their pleasure together. I may be placing my own desires on you, but I think that is something we both want to occur post haste._

_If I allow myself to dwell too much on the particulars of these future events, I shall find myself in an uncomfortable state. So, upon closing this missive, I will turn my attention to indexing the Abernetty case. That should keep me in a sober condition until daylight._

_In short, you are beautiful when you sleep. And you were invaluable during the case. And I remain,_

_Yours,_

_Holmes_

* * *

[found the following day at 1913 in the pocket of the dressing gown of S. Holmes scrawled upon a scrap of paper.]

**I’m upstairs waiting for you, you long-winded, long-toothed git. Ravish me at once if convenient. If inconvenient, ravish me all the same. JW.**


	10. Trinket (Rating: Teen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson in peril. Rats (and Holmes) to the rescue. The Red-Headed League AU. Rated: Teen for blood. 
> 
> For the DW slashficlets prompt #8: trinket.
> 
> The poem I wrote for a DW GYWO picture prompt of rows of votive candles.

Death did not seem a hardship if it meant I would no longer breathe the awful stench of captivity.

The trolls reeked. The candles to my right, tiered rows in glass votive jars on a stand, were not made of wax or tallow. The wicks and tiny flickering tongues of flame floated occultly in portions of ever-fresh blood.

So much blood. On fire.

My nostrils burned. My belly knotted and rose in my throat.

It had begun as an odd case.

A troll had arrived the previous evening at Baker Street claiming that his former employer, a cobbler named Jabez, was being tricked. The troll had lost his position to another troll after an accusation of theft, a theft he purported had been orchestrated by his usurper. Like most trolls, his former boss was a miser, and the new hire had agreed to work for half wages.

A week later, the sacked troll, whose name was Wilson, was surprised to catch sight of Jabez far from his shop, which he normally never left, and in a garden. Jabez told Wilson that he’d been hired for thrice his weekly earnings to catch snails in the garden, and he’d left the new assistant, called Spaulding, in charge of the shop during the day. Wilson said Spaulding had pointed out the offer in the newspaper. The league was only considering trolls who had more than a dozen warts on their head. And Jabez, being a thoroughly unsightly creature, had at least three dozen.

The arrangement seemed strange to Wilson, and he’d come to Holmes for advice.

Holmes promised to look into the matter, and at once, he and I had made a round to garden, where there was a sign on the gate proclaiming it be to the headquarters of the Wart-Headed League, and to the cobbler’s shop, where we spoke with a weary Jabez. Catching snails was, apparently, harder than mending shoes.

After that, I’d accompanied Holmes on a short ramble. He noted, as we passed, a jeweler’s, a bank, and a church.

Holmes reckoned that nothing untoward would happen the following day, so we returned to Baker Street, him to ruminate until dawn and I to sleep.

I retraced our steps by daylight and saw Jabez about his snail-catching and Spaulding, after many hard knocks on the door, at his cobbling. The latter was covered in dirt and not too pleased to see me. I left him and advanced along the path that Holmes and I had trod the previous night.

When I reached the church, I decided to go inside. I knew that Holmes could not enter some churches, but I was not certain if this church was prohibited to him. I planned to report back when Holmes woke at dusk if there was anything of interest.

At first, the priest mistakenly assumed I was with a delegation of priests who were arriving to pass the week of Easter at the attached rectory, but he was kindly enough and showed me around. He asked if I was interested in seeing the crypt. With the philosophy of leaving no stone unturned, I said yes. He gave me a little tin star which he said was blessed and bid me go first down the steep stairs.

And now I was bound and gagged in the crypt.

A pair of trolls had burst through the floor and taken me captive. Spaulding had been the third to pop up from the tunnel. He had a heavy flask of blood and filled all but the last row of glass votives which were on a tiered rack. He said the last row those were saved for my blood.

From their crude talk, I learned that the church had only one fissure in its ethereal defenses, a spot in the corner of crypt. The trolls had dug their way through the earth from the floor of the shop to the site, and not wanting to anger their fellow troll, had planned the scheme to get poor Jabez out of the way while they dug. The priest I’d met upstairs was a demi-troll and a member of the gang.

These trolls, I learned, had an almost insatiable appetite for human priests and made all sorts of things with priests’ blood and bones.

They were waiting for the delegation, but it was clear they were going to eat me first.

I despaired.

My _were_ strength, indeed, my human strength had been sapped somehow.

And even if I could hold out until dusk, how would Holmes know what had become of me?

Then, when the trolls’ backs were turned, a rat peeked out from the tunnel. It scurried towards me and began to gnaw at my ropes. Then another rat came. And another.

The trolls turned.

Chaos erupted.

The trolls shouted and stamped, but the rats proved too many, enough to free me as well as carry me on the thin moving carpet of their backs towards the gaping hole in the floor.

Before I fell to earth, I smelled a sweet tendril of liquorice cutting through the fetid air. I heard a rushing wind and an ominous baritone reciting a poem.

_Quiet in queues are the questions in mews._

_Ribboned in rows is the unrighteous prose._

_Sisterly cisterns do sit with their blood._

_Tiny each tipple that’s tapped from the flood._

_Fleeting the flames that are flickering small._

_Wickedest wicks cannot whittle the squall._

_Candles in canticles canting with froth._

_Knavishly knotting the nightwalker’s wrath._

BOOM!

My world caved in.

“I have been woefully remiss in not providing you with an amulet of genuine protection, my dear Watson,” said Holmes as he pulled me out of the rubble and into the darkness of the cobbler’s shop at the other end of the tunnel, “Woefully remiss, indeed. I will remedy that as soon as possible. I owe a debt of gratitude to the Baker Street Irregulars for their assistance. Now let’s hope Wilson and Jabez are reconciled, warts and all.”


	11. Bright Daffodils.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson makes a thoughtful gesture at Easter. Gen.
> 
> References to the previous chapter and William Wordsworth's poem "[I wandered lonely as a cloud](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45521/i-wandered-lonely-as-a-cloud)."
> 
> For the DW Watson's Woes April 2020 prompt: daffodils and the DW slashficlets prompt #9: bright.

“Today was a fine spring day,” observed Holmes.

“Did your rats tell you that?” I countered good-naturedly, referring to Holmes’s band of irregulars who supplied him with information as well as provided the occasional companion-in-distress-rescuing service.

“No, your face did. You fell asleep in the train, your face against the window. It wasn’t sunny when you left East Anglia this morning, but the sun must’ve come out in full force to burn you in that singular manner.” He drew a flat hand, turned to the side, down his own face, as if splitting it in two. “Don’t fret. It will fade in a day or two.”

I smiled. “You are quite right, of course. It was a splendid day. The sun was bright and pleasant. And I believe I actually caught sight of Wordsworth’s beloved daffodils ‘tossing their heads in spritely dance.’”

“Ah, sunny daffodils.”

It might have been my imagining, but I thought I saw a fleeting wistfulness flit across Holmes’s features, and then it occurred to me that sun, whether it be shining on daffodils or roses and tulips, was anathema to a nightwalker.

Did he miss it? I wondered.

Holmes, as ever, read my thoughts.

“There are many kinds of light which brighten my world, Watson. Celestial ones, moonlight, starlight, you’ll allow, have great charm. Firelight, too, can be agreeable. Candlelight, lamplight, have warmth.” He shrugged, then lifted his chin and his eyes took on that quality of a very fine actor about to impart a soliloquy.

For oft, when on my couch I lie  
In vacant or in pensive mood,  
They flash upon that inward eye  
Which is the bliss of solitude;  
And then my heart with pleasure fills,  
And dances with the daffodils.

I applauded. Holmes bowed. We went on about our evening, but one might say the seed of a fancy had been planted in the soil of my thoughts.

I tended my fancy’s garden bed for two whole days, wondering if such a notion could even sprout, and then, when discovering it could, spent another day in its execution.

And so, when Holmes appeared at dusk on the third day after our discussion, a sunny surprise awaited him.

Daffodils.

On every surface of the flat.

Vase upon vase. Jug upon jar. And every other vessel that would hold the stalks.

“Watson!”

I had been ensconced behind my armchair with bated breath. I sprang up.

Holmes’s face beamed as he gazed round the room.

“’Ten thousand at a glance,’” he said with undisguised wonder and admiration.

“If you cannot go to the sun, the sun, or its emissaries, will have to come to you.”

“Watson, it is a beautiful gesture. Who ‘could not be gay / in such jocund company’? You and these flowers.”

“Now, you may lie upon your couch, and they will flash upon your outward eye.”

“So they will.” He approached me and clasped my hands in his and kissed them.

“In the morning, I shall arrange for them to be delivered to Saint Augustine’s.”

“For the Easter service.” Holmes nodded approvingly. “It is the least that we can do seeing as how we—”

“—and a band of greedy trolls—”

“—are responsible for the disruption of their Holy Week observances. Not to mention the destruction of their crypt.”

“Well, it wasn’t a very nice crypt,” I remarked, remembering my captivity.

“No,” agreed Holmes. “Wordsworth was right. The do out-do the sparkling waves with glee.”

I don’t know if Holmes did much of anything that night but lie upon his couch with his lean body extended and his arms bent at the elbows, hand behind his head, and smile.

It was the brightest smile I had yet seen plastered on his face.

I rose early the following morning, but when I arrived downstairs, I found all the daffodils were gone.

There was a note from Holmes.

_I took the liberty of transferring your beautiful gift to Saint Augustine’s myself by my singular means. My profoundest thanks, again. I wander lonely no more with such a companion. Yours ever. Holmes._

I was happy. Holmes was happy. The only people who were, perhaps, not happy were the Easter Flower Committee of Saint Augustine’s. Each of those fine ladies suspected the other of overstepping her duties in setting up the flowers without notifying the Committee, but since the daffodils, and their artistic placement, were so lovely, and since the new priest had heaped such profuse praise upon the Committee for their work, they each kept their suspicions and slight resentment to themselves.


	12. Ink (Rating: Teen.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes leaves behind a token of sentiment. Rating: Teen. 
> 
> For DW slashficlet comm prompt 10. Ink. The sonnet is the first from _Sonnets from the Portuguese_ by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Though he must’ve been sorely tempted on many occasions and by a variety of motives, Sherlock Holmes, by and large, respected my prohibition on his occult manipulation of my person. The instances when he succumbed to the urge to employ his not inconsiderable powers upon me without my express consent were few.

By far the most whimsical and, I confess, the most endearing of these occurred after a night of the tenderest and most gentle lovemaking he and I had shared. Earlier in the evening we’d been talking of poetry, and we’d gone on to read aloud and recite from memory some favourite verse. In hindsight, I can only conclude that such an exchange must’ve predisposed us to a certain sensitivity in our treatment of one another.

At a late hour, Holmes took me by the hand and led me to his bedroom, which, as he slept in his coffin in a bare cell on a subterranean floor, he only used as a dressing room and, by then, a coupling room.

We were slow, almost leisurely in our caressing and stroking and divesting, giving and receiving pleasure until just before dawn.

Finally, Holmes pressed his cool lips to my cheek and said,

“I must go, Watson.”

I sighed and murmured, “I might sleep until dusk myself.”

* * *

I did rise before luncheon. Holmes must’ve left instructions for his room not to be disturbed for I woke in his bed, nude and pleasantly warm even though the bedclothes were completely thrown off.

I sat up and blinked, at first scarcely comprehending what my eyes were seeing.

But, yes, I eventually decided, there was written in an elegant, spidery hand down the length of my right leg two lines from a sonnet by Elizabeth Barrett Browning:

_“Guess now who holds thee!”—“Death,” I said, But, there,_

_The silver answer rang, “Not Death, but Love.”_

“Holmes, you are a cursed romantic.”

I admired the calligraphy and the sentiment, but then, with a slight pang of anxiety, began to wonder if the ink was as immortal as the scribe.

I turned my head and saw a note had been left on the bedside table.

_Watson,_

_The sentiment is indelible. The ink is not. It may only, however, be erased by singular means. When you desire its removal, repeat three times the final four words and pass your hand over the lettering. I hope you will forgive this violation of our agreement. I was weak._

_Your ever, Holmes_

I studied the note. Then I studied my leg and found I couldn't summon any anger or desire to remove the ink.

* * *

The first order of business when Holmes appeared that evening was to reassure him.

“I’m not angry. I’m charmed.”

“Good.”

“So charmed that I’ve decided to keep it for a while.”

Holmes’s eyebrows rose, and his lips twitched in a smile. “As you wish,” he said evenly but he looked exceedingly pleased with himself as he unfurled the topmost newspaper on the stack.

* * *

A week later, I was ready.

I was nude once more in Holmes’s bed, at the point of letting sleep overtake me.

Holmes extinguished the lone candle in the room, and I chanted.

_“Not Death, but Love.”_

_“Not Death, but Love.”_

_“Not Death, but Love.”_

I drew my hand down my leg and watch, with wonder, as the letters transformed into a host of luminescent silvery moths which fluttered in a rising spiral toward the ceiling, leaving a trail of shimmering dust in their wake before disappearing like smoke.

“Holmes, you are an incorrigible romantic!”

“Guilty,” he murmured and drew me into his embrace.


	13. Green. (Rating: Mature)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** Green  
>  **Rating:** Mature  
>  **Length:** 1000  
>  **For:** 2020 Merry Month of Masturbation and DW slashficlets prompt #13.  
>  **Notes:** Masturbation. Pornography. Deliberately vague on two points which some might find annoying. This would take place a week after Chapter 4: Warmth but before some of the other chapters.  
>  **Summary:** Watson accidently stumbles upon Holmes pleasuring himself.

I allowed myself the expense of a hansom cab at the end of my late-night rounds, greatly wishing, and greatly fearing, Holmes would be in residence when I returned to our Baker Street rooms.

I must have it out with him, I told myself for the hundredth time. No matter the embarrassment to either of us. No matter, well, no matter.

It might have been a bawdy comedy of errors if not for one element, that one element which disturbed me though I told myself it ought not to disturb me.

I had once been a man of the world. I was now a _were_ of the world. And I knew that what someone might elect to look upon for purposes of arousal during self-pleasure was not necessarily indicative of the acts that someone desired to commit with partner or partners.

I ought not to be disturbed, I told myself.

No, I amended, Holmes ought not to have borrowed my stethoscope for his experiment in termites without returning it. Then I wouldn’t have had to make a lengthy return, in a state of high irritation, back to Baker Street to retrieve it. Then I wouldn’t have, noting the strange noise coming from Holmes’s bedroom, a room he rarely used except for change of clothing, burst in, suspecting further home-damaging investigations into wood-chewing insects.

I did, it was evident, catch Holmes wholly by surprise. I found him sitting in a straight chair in a state of half dress with a book, a book with a green cover, I noted absently, open on the seat of a chair in front of him.

I made a noise of alarm. Holmes had cried out, too, and turned to look over his shoulder at me.

His expression was a mask of abject horror.

Then he’d made an up-to-down motion with his hand and promptly disappeared.

The pages of the book fluttered then settled on that image, that very disturbing image.

I’d grabbed my stethoscope which was, of all places, under Holmes’s bed, and left with a mumbled apology.

As I descended the stairs, I shoved the incident to the far recess of my mind.

Now, some five hours later, I was on my way back to Baker Street, contemplating what had happened and wondering just what I thought about it all.

My first notion was so blatantly inane was to be downright shameful, but truthfully, I hadn’t known nightwalkers frigged!

Well, now I knew. Or I knew at least one did.

I hadn’t known, but I might have suspected. The previous week, while accompanying Holmes on a case, I’d met with an accident and fallen into the Thames. Holmes had fished me out and taken excellent care in reviving me, and in the course of the night, we’d confessed our desire for one another.

I had dumbly asked Holmes how a _were_ and a nightwalker might love, and he replied glibly, but opaquely, “Very carefully,” and since then we’d not had the liberty or inclination to discuss or explore the possibilities in more concrete detail.

And now that image, I shuddered, was making me somewhat grateful that Providence hadn’t seen fit to give us that opportunity. I chastised myself for such a thought and said a sincere prayer that Holmes would be at home and that we could clear the air at once.

* * *

“It was absolutely repugnant of me to enter your bedroom in the manner that I did, Holmes. I sincerely and profusely apologise for the intrusion upon your privacy.”

“I accept your apology,” said Holmes stiffly. “I apologise for,” he waved a hand, “my rather juvenile reaction.”

“Nonsense. You acted on instinct. Understandable.” Should I bring it up? I asked myself and the answer came quickly. Yes, if this unconventional arrangement were to work at all, there must be trust. “Holmes, your choice of,” I coughed, “inspiration…”

He sighed heavily. “Perhaps you allow a confession which may, I warn you, reflect negatively on me?”

“Certainly,” I said and braced myself for what was to be revealed. I mean, after all, Holmes subsisted on human blood and practiced occult magic on a regular basis. He was also slovenly with his papers and cavalier and careless with his use, borrowing, and destruction of household furnishings and certain articles of my own property. What more? I asked myself.

“I do still desire you as greatly as I described the other night, Watson, but it has been a very, very long time since I have engaged in any intimacy, even that of a self-administered variety, and before we attempted anything, I wished to confirm that,” he glanced down at his own body, “everything was in working order.”

“No lovers at all? Or even…?”

“Not for close on a century.”

“By Jove!”

“So you see I thought some visual stimulant might, well, aide matters, but due to my unfortunate response to the intrusion, the page which you saw was not the page I was employing for that aim.”

He rose from his chair and went to the bookshelf and retrieved the volume with the green cover. He opened it and showed me.

“Oh!” My eyebrows rose. I tilted my head to one side studying the illustration and hummed. “That is very different.”

“The only violence you inspire in me, Watson, is in your defense. I should be as gentle or as rough a lover as suits us both.”

I nodded.

Holmes closed the book and returned it to the shelf.

“Did you make a second attempt after I left?”

Holmes shook his head.

I glanced over his shoulder at the green spine. Then I smiled cheekily. “Perhaps I could be of assistance whenever you do.”

One of Holmes’ eyebrows rose, and his lips twisted in a grin. “That is an excellent plan, Watson. After all, we ought to begin as we mean to go on. In collaboration.”

I laughed and got to my feet and closed the distance between us with my arms extended.

“Kiss me, my dear.”


	14. Rain. (Gen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first of two drabbles written for the DW Watson's Woes May Drabble-fest in this AU. This one was also written for the DW slashficlets prompt #11 which is also 'rain.' 
> 
> Watson ponders the rain.

“Bricks and clay, my dear Watson.”   
  
I turned back toward the splattered window.   
  
“Oh, I was only thinking of…”  
  
 _…mist parting on a cloudy full moon night as a certain canary trainer gets the shock of his life…  
…torrents forming an impenetrable curtain all around as they spill off the bat-like wing extended overhead…  
…tedious pissing drizzle which steadily and insidiously soaks me to the bone as I hurry in the wake of a determined creature who feels neither damp nor cold…  
…a summer storm which gives the appearance of vengeance incarnate and vengeance incarnate which returns the favour…_  
  
…rain.”


	15. Amble. (Gen.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second of two drabbles written for the Watson's Woes May Drabble-fest, prompt #5: amble. Also written for the DW slashficlets prompt #16: touch.
> 
> Watson faces hostility from another _were_ on a walk with Holmes.

It was the most natural thing in the world for me to wrap my arm in Holmes’s as we crossed Regent’s Park.   
  
We were ambling along when I felt an angry heat. One sniff told me a hostile _were_ was coming towards us.   
  
Holmes tried to release me, but I held him fast.   
  
_Your touch is nothing to despise, my dear nightwalker._   
  
I stared back at the _were_ as he passed.  
  
“Yowl!”  
  
Holmes and I turned.  
  
The _were_ had run into a tree!  
  
Holmes and I looked at each other and laughed.  
  
“Your doing?”  
  
Holmes shook his head. “His own.”


	16. Gift (Holmes/Watson. Gen.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** Gift  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Length:** 1000  
>  **For:** DW slashfics prompt #20: gift  
>  **Summary:** Watson figures out a gift to give Holmes.

Though frugal by nature, I considered the expense of a hansom cab to and from my destination a wise investment. A _were_ with a shovel under his arm on the morning after a full moon is somewhat conspicuous. Beautiful humans, those humans who are ignorant of the supernatural beings which live amongst them, are suspicious of shovels carried by professional-looking gentlemanly-looking persons in sectors as urban and urbane as central London, and nosey _were_ are simply wondering what you got up to last night.

It didn’t help that I had my head tied up like a parcel. A hat and scarf concealed some of the bandage, but not all of it. It was late June, and I was sweating heavily before I ever struck soil.

My errand was a simple one: I was off to get a gift. But with an intended recipient as significant, singular, and other as a nightwalker, nothing is ever truly simple.

I confess I had put the notion of giving Sherlock Holmes a gift out of my mind until that morning. The sentimental urge was there, I adored Holmes, but when I set my mind to gift selection, the practicality always tripped me up. What physical token could possibly hold any significance for a powerful, immortal being such as Holmes? Everything I considered seemed common at best. He didn’t desire anything except things which were either out of reach (I had no desire to take up a career as a master criminal) or were out of consideration ( _were_ blood is not considered a delicacy by any nightwalker, including Holmes).

And so things had stayed.

But on the previous night, there had been a full moon, and I had chosen to spend it with other _were_ at Hampstead Heath. I had gotten myself into a good-natured test of strength and fitness, a wrestling match, in fact, with a large grey _were_. At one point, he tossed me behind him, and I fell muzzle-first into the ground.

I hit a rock. I lost a tooth.

I covered the tooth with my body and made a series of scratching motions with my legs and paws to bury it. These motions were pantomime, too, the gestures of a battle-worn _were_ who is ready to surrender.

But when I turned and showed a bloodied but unbowed mask of determination to the spectators as well as my opponent, I swear waves of quivering furs of many hues and lengths resulted.

I would love to say that I trounced my adversary, but in fact, I lost. I enjoyed myself immensely, however, and was as celebrated as the victor in the end.

When I returned to my human form at dawn, my mouth ached. I told Mrs. Hudson that I was retiring to my bed without breakfast, and she promised to send up some tea whenever I wished. I washed myself and bandaged my head and laid down on the bed.

It was then that I remembered, and considered, the tooth.

If it was still there, it was a gift-giving opportunity not to be missed. There was also no time to be wasted. There were scavengers, trolls and goblins and the like, who scoured _were_ meeting places after a full moon. for troves to be sold. A were tooth would be worth more than gold. Such creatures, not wishing to arouse interest, usually waited until dark, but I didn’t want to take the chance that an industrious specimen might get the better of me. I had to act quick.

I hurried downstairs and asked Mrs. Hudson for some strong coffee and a shovel. She said I looked like a new man. I said I had a purpose and a clock ticking. She said that always helped and went to fetch a cup of fortifying brew and my tool of choice.

* * *

Once at Hampstead Heath, I found the spot easily enough and began to dig.

Fortunately, I found the tooth just where I had buried it the night before.

“I’m like a dog with a bone,” I said to myself as I pocketed the tooth and headed back to the place where I’d left the cab.

Inside the cab, I removed my hat and scarf and untied the bandage I’d wrapped around my head. I used the bandage to wipe the tooth clean. The body of it was as big as my little finger and very sharp. I bundled it up and put it in my pocket and enjoyed the ride back to Baker Street.

Interestingly, I no longer felt any pain in my mouth.

* * *

“A gift for you.” I slid the small box across the table.

“My dear man,” murmured Holmes with genuine surprise.

He opened the box. His eyebrows rose. His jaw dropped.

Rendering the great Sherlock Holmes speechless was gift enough for me.

“It’s mine,” I explained.

“I know that.”

“Nightwalkers will interpret as a talisman of strength, but werewolves will know better. We can smell the difference between a tooth taken and a tooth given. _Weres_ will know it means you are special to at least one of us, which you are.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Holmes said softly as he removed the tooth from its cotton nest and studied it. “‘Thank you’ seems wholly inadequate but thank you. I shall cherish it forever.”

“Good. Seeing as how you’ve given me, well…”

I didn’t really want to dwell on the holy water, cross, and stakes that Holmes had, by way of third parties, entrusted to me, so I settled for,

“…a lovely life.”

“I gave you curses, curses to curse the cursed. You have given me a blessing.” He curled his fingers round the tooth. “But however did you lose it?”

“In a fight last night.”

“Who?!” asked Holmes pointedly. If nightwalkers could have hackles, his would have been up.

“It was a fair, sporting match, Holmes,” I said soothingly.

“Oh, well, in that case,” he leaned back in his chair and smiled, “tell me all about it.”


	17. Glass (Gen.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson is lured to a dark spot by Waterloo Bridge. "The Five Orange Pips" AU. Gen.
> 
> For the DW slashficlet prompt #21: glass.

I hurried until I reached the bridge.

In the darkness, led by eponymous scent, I made my way slowly, step by cautious step, towards the small landing-place where the river steamboat named _Lavender’s Lace_ was tied.

The note had been specific.

_If you value your nightwalker’s existence, you will appear between the evening hours of nine and ten…_

I was not certain whether the note had appeared in my coat pocket by human or occult means. The writing was scarcely legible, but that was no clue.

The place and time had been definite, and something compelled me to honour the request.

What struck me most as I neared the landing-place was the silence. It was Waterloo Bridge. It was the Thames. At this hour, at every hour, there ought to have been the cacophony of the metropolis, its people, its machines, but all of a sudden, it was as if someone, or something, had drawn an invisible muffling curtain around me.

I could see the world, but I could not hear it.

“Hullo!” I called. “John Watson! Just ask you asked.”

I might have been in a high-walled garden in the country.

I might have been in a monastery. Or a library. Or a cemetery.

It was deathly quiet.

The air was wholly and supernaturally still.

And then I heard the faint tinkling of glass chimes.

Chimes singing without wind.

And then a cold, a horrible, nauseating cold, ran down my spine. Every single hair in every single follicle of my body stood on end. My nostrils flared, but I could smell nothing save a lone tendril of lavender.

And then I was suddenly and utterly terrified.

Fear blinded me.

I pinched my eyes shut and called out like a lost child.

“Holmes!”

“Are you afraid of ghosts, Watson?”

I opened my eyes just in time to see Holmes emerging, grey and ashen, from a fog.

“Are you a ghost, Holmes?”

He smiled and shook his head. “Still undead, but not that particular type of undead.” He nodded, pointing with his chin behind me.

I turned.

There was a young man, well-groomed and trimly clad, with something of refinement and delicacy in his bearing.

“Forgive me, Doctor Watson, for alarming you.”

I studied the young man’s face. It was familiar.

“We’ve met.”

The young man smiled, but the voice behind me said,

“Unlikely, Watson. Mister Openshaw was a client of mine before I met you, a client whom, regrettably, I failed. He met his end on this very spot, trying to catch the last train leaving Waterloo Station.”

I frowned. “But…”

“Doctor Watson was kind enough to invite me into his dreams one night,” said Openshaw.

“Yes, yes!” I cried. “I was still in that hotel room on The Strand! It was…”

“The day you met Mister Holmes,” finished Openshaw. “For a _were_ , you are surprisingly amenable to phantasmagorical influence, Doctor Watson. I would be surprised if I were the first of my kind to touch you. I’ve never succeeded in anything so concrete as a written note before. It’s extraordinary. I attribute it to my will meeting your willingness.” He waved at me, and the sensation was no more than a piquant passage from a lurid novel might produce. “Yes, I was in your dreams. I spent my time there doing my best to encourage your association with Mister Holmes.”

“Why?” asked Holmes pointedly. “So that you can haunt him as you do me? That is cruel. Watson was not involved in your case. He has done nothing to warrant such a burden.”

The young man shook his head. His gaze was filled with sorrow.

“It is not I who am haunting you, Mister Holmes. It is you who are haunting me. I used Doctor Watson to draw you here, a place you would be loath to visit, except to prevent harm to one who means so much to you. I am a feeble presence elsewhere in the metropolis. Here is where I have my fullest power. Here is where I can forgive you, and if you forgive yourself, you will release me. With Doctor Watson near, you need no further reminders from me, I think, of your better self. The note I wrote to him began ‘If you value your nightwalker’s existence,’ and by Jove, he does! He truly does have your best interests at heart, Mister Holmes.”

I spun round.

It took a few moments for Holmes to find speech.

“I forgive myself, Mister Openshaw.”

“Thank you, Mister Holmes.”

Glass chimes sang, as if announcing the retreating cold.

I turned.

The young man was no more. There was only a wisp of fog curling a path toward the _Lavender’s Lace_. The coarse coiled ropes which held the vessel moored loosened of their own volition, and somehow the craft left the bank and disappeared into a thick carpet of river fog.

“How did you find me, Holmes?”

“I’m a sleuthhound, my dear Watson.”

“I knew it might be trap, but I still couldn’t ignore it.”

“You have good instincts.” He laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. “We should go home.”

I nodded and looked about. “There might be footpads about.”

Holmes chuckled. “They will wish they were not about.”

“Will you tell me about the Openshaw case?”

He nodded. “Come. A nice hot toddy and I’ll tell you the whole tale.”

We climbed the slope hand-in hand.


	18. Silver (Rating: Teen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** Silver  
>  **Rating:** Teen  
>  **Length:** 805  
>  **For:** DW slashficlet prompt #22: silver  
>  **Summary:** A trio of scaly vampires pit Watson and Holmes against each other. Or do they?

The first vampire gave a sibilant chuckle, which was echoed by his two companions.

“And s-s-so you s-s-see your exis-s-stence is-s-s at an end, Mis-s-ster Holmes-s-s. You s-s-should not have let a s-s-serpent into your bos-s-som!”

“So, it came to this after all, did it, Watson?” said Holmes with a cold sneer. “You betrayed me for what? Forty round pieces of silver?”

“No, not so many. Not even three very sharp ones. I might have done it for nothing. Do you really think I, a _were_ , could stand to live with a, a, a vampire! The stench alone!” I scoffed.

“A traitor! That I should even considered trusting so vile a beast was madness. My cross to bear, I suppose.”

“I don’t think that’s it at all, either, Holmes.”

“Ah, I see, then it is a slaying…”

“WITH FLAGON!” I howled as I sprang to my feet and doused the three serpentine vampires with holy water.

The screams and the hiss of the vapour were deafening.

Holmes crouched behind me until the last drop had been shaken from the snakeskin flask.

“They’re gone, Holmes.”

I breathed in the putrid smoke which was all that was left of the asp nightwalkers.

Holmes led me from the temple, and I emptied the contents of my stomach on the crumbling stones.

* * *

“Watson, all those things I said. All the things they forced me to write…”

He’d dragged me to his bedroom, which was, of course, used mostly for changing clothes and lovemaking as Holmes’s sleeping quarters were on a subterranean floor. He stripped down to his shirtsleeves and sat on the bed. I followed suite.

“…you didn’t mean a word of it, Holmes. I know that.”

He laughed and clapped his hands together. “Extraordinary!”

“I’m surprised the asps didn’t catch on to our performance, though.”

Holmes shrugged. “They have no understanding of loyalty. Or friendship. Or anything remotely resembling chivalry. But it still pained me to say those things and to write those things.”

“I didn’t believe a word of it. You didn’t believe me, either, did you?”

He shook his head. “Not looking you in the eye, no.”

“I’m so glad that you understood I had the holy water and not the three stakes or the cross.”

“They would’ve sensed the cross, and the stakes would not be so easily hidden. It was very clever of you to put the holy water in a snakeskin flask, which wouldn’t be detected by the asps. That, I think, saved us both, but, yes, I understood you.”

“Forty pieces of silver,” I mused. “Cross to bear. Very Biblical.” This last I said in a tone that suggested I should like the evening to continue in a different Biblical vein.

Holmes leaned forward and kissed me, and our hand became tangled as each was trying to get the other out of his shirt as quickly as possible.

“I will arrange for a replacement of the holy water,” Holmes mumbled against my neck.

“Holmes, don’t,” I protested. I pulled back to look him in the eye. “I know you gave me the cross, the stakes, and the holy water in the beginning, when we first met, because you wanted me to feel safe with you. I don’t need them anymore. Tonight should have proved that. I am not afraid that your power will be used against me or without my consent. I trust your word. It’s enough for me.”

Holmes took my hands in his and kissed the tops of them. “Oh, Watson, never in all my years, did I hope to hear those words or feel what I feel for you, but there are other reasons now.”

“Oh, you fear revenge on me for what I did to the asps?”

Holmes laughed. “No. You must understand that nightwalkers have no loyalty. There are thralls, but the destruction of a nightwalker means much-desired freedom for its thralls, so they aren’t likely to want to avenge that.”

“But you are a nightwalker. And you have loyalty. To me.”

He huffed. “The exception that proves the rule.” He sighed. “No, I mean once word of tonight’s events gets round the city, you may get a reputation among _were_ and others as a slayer.”

“Ah, I see. The hoy water is in case I want to kill other nightwalkers.”

“Precisely.”

“But not you.”

“I should hope not.”

“Do you think I would purposefully harm you?”

“No.”

“Do you think I would knowingly conspire to bring about your destruction?”

“No.”

“Do you think I’d wish your death?”

His brow furrowed. “A second one, you mean?”

“No,” I grinned, “I mean a _little_ one.”

“A little _French_ death?”

“Yes, that. How wonderful that twice in one night we understand each other perfectly!”

“Oh, my clever _were_ ,” Holmes purred. “we will understand each other _many times_ before dawn.”


	19. Time. (Gen.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is turning into Monster of the Week, isn't it? Not that that's a bad thing. This type of monster should be familiar to anyone who has read The Were of the Baskervilles.
> 
> This was written for DW Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts challenge #18 & DW slashficlet prompt #14: time.

The first—and only—time I ever saw Watson pick up a gun in my bedroom—and brandish it at a half-nude doppelgänger of myself—was also a day I rested most uneasily in my coffin calculating in my state of unholy unrest the likelihood of waking to a world in which my beloved werewolf had been destroyed. 

Revenge was certain. One could not land so crushing a blow to so slippery an adversary as I had the previous night and not expect retaliation, but the case had dragged on for too long, and there was little I could do to protect Watson between the first rays of dawn and the first shadow of dusk. 

So great was my anxiety that I woke the instant that daylight began to fade. I rose at once, forgoing human-like pleasantries of washing and dressing fully. I threw a dressing gown over drawers and hurried out into the corridor, only to catch the swishing tail of a dressing gown identical to mine hurrying up the stairs. 

I heard my agitated voice.

“Watson, are you all right?”

“Of course. Anstruther hasn’t made a move at all. Oh, you poor thing. You do look worried. Come, let me take your mind off things.” 

This was an extremely poor time, I thought, for Watson to be making amorous advances.

“Oh, Watson,” I heard myself say, then I heard the double squeak of my bedroom door. 

I flew upstairs. I peered through the keyhole just in time to see Watson picking up the gun and brandishing at a half-nude doppelgänger of myself.  
“That is a very silly thing to do,” said I—the I who was half lying on the bed, divested of shirt and displaying a torso musculature that was flatteringly defined. “Bullets are nothing to my kind…”

BAM!

That was the sound of a bullet exploding from the barrel of a gun as well as our rent going up for damages to the mattress and bedclothes.  
“…but the annoyance of the as-yet-un-slapped mosquito.”

“We’ll see about that!” howled Watson.

He soon joined his companion in a bare-chested state, shaking his own dressing gown into a silken pool on the floor. 

BAM!

The doppelgänger was piqued by Watson’s stubbornness as well as momentarily distracted by Watson’s handsome physique. I could empathise with both sentiments, but that moment of distraction was all I needed to discorporate and slip through the keyhole and up Watson’s spine like a cold shiver.

“I want your body, Doctor! And I will have it!” hissed the I who still had a body in which to hiss.

WHOOSH!

ROWR!

The doppelgänger leapt from the body in which he was housed, looking much lie a burst of grey smoke from a large, suddenly-extinguished candle, and I met him in the air, using all my power to strangle the lifeforce from him.   
It was like wringing the neck of demonic chicken who did not want to die, but eventually, I prevailed. 

When the smoke cleared, so to speak, I returned to my usual form.   
The room was half-demolished—and worryingly Watson-less. The curled form of an unconscious young man lay on the bed. 

“Watson?!”

Watson crawled out from under the bed. “Did you get him?”

“Yes, but for you own safety, how do you know that I am the real Sherlock Holmes?”

Watson smiled. “That creature was an exceedingly stupid doppelgänger, Holmes. He might have copied you in appearance and speech, but he did not alter the scent of the body he borrowed for his purposes, and Timmy, the young assistant to the rag-and-bone man, smells nothing like a nightwalker, much less the nightwalker Sherlock Holmes!” He waved at the lad on the bed. “There was no trace of the perfume of eternal night on him and, if I may take a liberty, no hint of the lupin which now taints your aroma.” 

“Taints? Some might say ‘salvages,’ my dear were,” I chuckled. “But, yes, it was fatal flaw to forget the lupin olfactory prowess.” I brushed the plaster off the sleeping form while Watson wrapped him in the duvet and made as if to hoist him in his arms. 

“Let us turn this unfortunate creature over Mrs. Hudson’s reviving ministrations,” said Watson.

“Or…” I snapped my fingers.

The lad awoke, fully dressed.

“Sir? Sir?” He looked from one of us to the other, blinking owlishly and squawking parrotishly.

“Young man,” I said. “Downstairs there is cake.”

“Oh, yes, sir, thank you, sir!”

He flew out of the room. 

Watson picked up his dressing gown and wrapped himself in it. “I was playing for time. Knew you’d show up.” 

“I’ll never get your limits, Watson.”

He smirked and tied the sash. “How’s that?”

“Your ‘natural advantage’ with humans turns out to a supernatural one.”

He grinned.


	20. All Bottled Up. (Gen.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Baker Street Irregulars bring a bottled up Watson home. Gen.
> 
> For the DW Watson's Woes prompt #20 and DW slashficlets #23: bottle.

In most London households, the sight of a bottle of Imperial Tokay being hoisted up seventeen steps on the collective back of a dozen of the sturdiest rats ever known to the city dockyards would’ve provoked shock, disbelief, and quite possibly a call for the family physician, priest, or chemist, the last for hair tonic to return a suddenly stark-white coiffeur back to its original hue.

But Sherlock Holmes was as unperturbed as he was undead. 

He greeted the arrivals with warm welcome. These were his Baker Street Irregulars, a network of observant, astute, and loyal associates who were able to traverse all parts of the city and, most importantly for Holmes, at all hours of the day and night. 

“Thank you, noble creatures!” Holmes exalted when the bottle had been unceremoniously rolled onto the rug. “If you’ll consult Mrs. Hudson on the way out, you’ll find bandaged wheels of Cheshire—”

Half the bearer party cheered.

“—generous portions Cornish Yarg—”

The other half cheered.

“—and even a bit of Spanish Manchego for the most discerning, yes, I see you, Señor Gris-cola.”

A grey-tailed rat licked his paws, smoothed his whiskers, and gave a dignified nod in Holmes’s direction. 

“Off you go!”

The rats scampered down the steps. 

Holmes eyed the bottle, spoke a few words in a language much deader than he was, waved his hands, and covered his face.

The bottle shattered and, in its place on the rug, lay a sodden Watson curled in a foetal position.

“Watson, you should never challenge a genie to a drinking contest. You may know your cups, but they know their bottles.”

Watson gurgled. 

“I think,” Holmes considered, “a pot of hot coffee, a tub of hot water, and a nap beside a hot fire.” He sniffed and wrinkled his nose. “Bath first.”


	21. Gold. (Rats POV. Gen.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** Gold  
>  **Length:** 600  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Notes:** POV Rats (Baker Street Irregulars).  
>  **For:** DW Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts #30 [The One-Legged News-Seller and Other Spear-Carriers:Have today's offering from the POV of one of the background characters in any version of Sherlock Holmes, including characters who were never named. (Note: This does not include recurring principle characters like Mycroft or Hopkins.) and DW slashficlets prompt #25.. Gold.  
>  **Summary:** Billy the Rat explains to a new rat.

“Hey, Billy! Come ‘ere!”

The rat scurried over.

“Whatcha got, Mario? Gawd! It’s Doctor Watson!”

A young rat approached the two. “What’s the fuss?” He sniffed. “Oh, one of ‘em wolf-men. Oh, he ain’t even dead, yet. Shall we check ‘is pockets?”

“Shut yer trap!” squeaked Billy Wiggins, adding a swipe of his long whip-like tail for good measure. He lifted his nose and squeaked loudly, “Irregulars! Activate!”

Three large rats appeared from nowhere.

“S’almost dusk. Good. We’ll catch ‘im wakin’ up,” said Billy, then he addressed the three. “You go by relay to Baker Street as quick as can and tell the guv’nor where the Doctor is and what state he’s in. Out but not dead. Yet. Mario and me’s gonna stay here and fend off any whiskers with funny ideas.” He fixed the young rat with an undisguised warning.

The three rats took off.

“Mario, what’s he got?” asked Billy.

Mario scurried about the body, sniffing.

“Somebody ‘it ‘im in the ‘ead ‘ard,” he declared. “’e’ll come round soon.”

“I don’t understand,” said the young rat.

“What’s your name?” squeaked Billy.

“Chubs,” replied the young rat defensively.

“Well, Chubs, this ain’t your ordinary wolf-man. He’s the, uh, whatcha call it?” Billy scratched his ear and looked at Mario inquiringly.

“Nest-mate?” suggested Mario.

“Yeah, he’s the nest-mate of the oddest, smartest, strangest man-bat you ever gonna meet.”

“Man-bat?” squeaked Chubs, who began to tremble. “Uh, I don’t want no part of ‘em!”

“Nobody does, except this one ain’t like the rest. He’s our guv’nor. That means he pays us to tell ‘im things, things we see, things we ‘ear. Sometimes he sends us on assignment. Like soldiers. Sometimes we catch stuff on our own and report. We gets paid dependin’ on how useful our report is.”

Mario interrupted. “And above all, the guv’nor wants this fellow ‘ere, safe. Anything going on with ‘im is whatcha call ‘priority.’”

“Meaning it come first and pay best,” explained Billy. “And gettin’ the Doctor outta trouble…”

Mario’s squeak was like a long wolf whistle. “Worth its weight in gold!” Then he laughed. “And the thing is, this Doctor, he rushes in where angels fear to tread! Seems like he gets himself into some soup every week!”

“He can’t help it,” said Billy, shaking his head. “It’s ‘is nature. Trouble finds ‘im wherever ‘e go! But it’s fine supper to us!”

The two rats nodded sagely to each other, then looked about.

Soon they had stationed themselves on either end of the unconscious body.

Chubs hesitated but eventually climbed onto the waist.

WHOOSH!

“Master Wiggins, Master Weeks, I am genuinely grateful.”

The voice was like a falling sheet of ice.

Chubs trembled but Wiggins and Mario seemed not to notice. The three rats abandoned the body.

“Watson!”

“Ugh!” groaned the wolf-man.

“Did anyone see the attack, Master Wiggins?”

“We’ll do a canvas,” said Billy.

“I’d appreciate it. Oh, my dear man, what kind of mess have you gotten yourself into tonight? Some reckless gallantry, no doubt. Or perhaps just a bit of bad luck. We’ll see. Can you sit up? No? No matter. Let’s get you home. Report back to Baker Street, Master Wiggins with your company when you have news.”

“Yes, sir!”

Some hours later, Wigging was laughing.

“See, Chubs, didn’t Mario tell you? Worth its weight in gold!” He gestured to the huge wheel of gilt-coloured cheese and then took a huge bite out of it.

Chubs cheeks were stuffed so he could only nod and grin.

“Mario?” called Wiggins.

“Keep your gold, Wiggins,” chided Mario. “I’ll take this magnificent hard salami.”


	22. Atmospheric. (Gen.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Atmospheric  
> Pairing/Characters: Holmes/Watson, OCs  
> Rating: Gen  
> Length: 600  
> For: the DW Watson's Woes prompt: atmospheric  
> Summary: Holmes consults on a minor matter.

“Holmes, playing _Danse Macabre_ on the violin as she left was a bit…”  
  
“Atmospheric?”  
  
“I was going to say ‘excessive,’ especially after the bats in the belfry made their presence known.”  
  
“That good woman supposed herself to be consulting a problem-solver of supernatural prowess.” Holmes fanned the fingers of one hand, like a conjuror displaying a deck of cards. A tiny flame shot from each well-manicured nail. He extinguished them with a blink. “Now she is certain of it.”

  
I snorted. Holmes shot me a cheeky look. I rolled my eyes.  
  
Then, suddenly and without warning, Holmes shook off his languor and jumped to his feet.  
  
“The fog is thick tonight, Watson!”  
  
“Yes, I am glad we sent Mrs. Benson home in a cab. It’s not a fight night out for man nor beast.”  
  
Holmes leapt towards his bedroom and reappeared in an instant in coat and hat and scarf.  
  
“Being neither, I shall brave it."  
  
“Shall I join you?” I asked.  
  
“No, this won’t take long. It won’t even be interesting, much less dangerous. You’ll enjoy your Clark Russell much more. Just be so kind as to save me a small portion of claret.”  
  
“If you’re certain.” Frankly, I didn’t fancy trading a cosy fire for a thick blanket of London particular, especially when the problem seemed to consist of nothing more than a squabble between neighbours.  
  
“I am.” Holmes pressed cool lips to the top of my head and pranced out the door like a hart panting after a cooling stream.

* * *

Mrs. Virginia Benson wasn’t concerned in the least about the fog.  
  
First of all, she was in a very comfortable cab which had already been paid for by the very singular Mister Holmes and the very kind Doctor Watson, and second of all, the slow journey gave her time to compose her stories, the story she would tell Marjorie at the quilting bee tomorrow and the story she would tell Vern when she arrived home. She could not, she decided, tell Vern the whole truth. Her husband was not a fanciful man, and if she started going off about her visit, well, he would chastise her for wasting money and time on such a foolish venture.  
  
Mister Holmes had assured her that the matter would be resolved very soon, but, really, what was his word worth? The way he looked and spoke and moved. The noises in that house! She was certain that there had been bats somewhere. She’d caught sight of the curled tail of a black cat, too, and felt eyes on her, but then she’d turn around and seen only shadows on the wall.  
  
Mrs. Benson shivered. If Ginny hadn’t said that that Mister Sherlock Holmes was the last word in solving problems that couldn’t be solved…  
  
Virginia was home at last.  
  
“Vern!”  
  
“Hullo, Mother. You’ve just missed ‘em.”  
  
“Who?”  
  
“The Bricks. They packed up and left.”  
  
“What?!”  
  
Virginia’s husband grinned and scratched the back of his head. “After coming over and returning m’grandad’s watch and apologisin’ and sayin’ how the old woman had gone a bit daft and was in the habit of wanderin’ in and out and takin’ whatever took ‘er fancy. Then they packed the gang up. Said they were going hop pickin’.”  
  
“In the middle of the night? Now?”  
  
Vernon Benson shook his head like a man who wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.  
  
“I don’t you they weren’t goblins.”  
  
“I said ‘trolls,’” corrected Mrs. Benson mildly, glancing at the wrapped bundle she held to her chest, “all that and he even gave us some gingerbreads.” 


	23. Dream/Date/Music (Gen.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Length:** 900  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **For:** DW slashficlets prompts: 33. Dream. 29. Date. 32. Music.  
>  **Summary:** Watson and Holmes go to Paris on holiday (part 1 of 3, divided into three parts because of the challenge/comm rules)

“Do nightwalkers dream?”

“Yes.”

“What do they dream of?”

“I’m not certain what other nightwalkers dream of, as I’ve never been curious enough to ask. But I dream much as I did as a human. Memories of the past. Snatches of imagined scenes and plots with no beginning and no end. The occasional lusty interval, both of the lovemaking and blood-drinking varieties, but never both at the same time, mind you. I suppose the only difference is I am no longer plagued by anxieties about the future, that is, about my future.”

I had no desire to delve into the angst-ridden topic of my mortality versus Holmes’s immortality, so I merely hummed and nodded and thanked my companion for his candor.

“And you, my dear Watson, what do you dream of? Did you have a vivid one last night? You seem a bit distracted this evening, and if the topic is still on your mind, then it must have made an impression.”

“Last night, I dreamt of Paris.”

“Indeed?” Holmes leaned forward in his chair.

“Do you know I’ve never visited the city? So how can I have dreamt of it?”

“Never?”

I shook my head.

“Then how do you know it was Paris?”

I shrugged. “The way you know things in dreams. The way you arrive without leaving your home and leave without paying a bill.”

Holmes was silent and thoughtful for a few minutes, long enough for me to return to my newspaper. Then he asked,

“What say you to a Parisian holiday?”

I lowered my newspaper. “When?”

“As soon as you like. I’ve no cases at the moment.”

“Oh, Holmes.” I couldn’t deny it: excitement lit like dry kindling. “I would love it.”

The news of the day was forgotten entirely, and we set about making plans.

* * *

In every holiday, there was to be one significant disappointment, I told myself. It ensured that the rest of the time would go swimmingly.

I’d opted for night travel, and surprisingly, Holmes elected to keep me company. He did not seem at all put out by the boat from Dover and the trains. He could’ve snapped his fingers, or something similar, and been on the Champs-Élysées in a fraction of the time, but he elected not to employ his supernatural powers. Maybe the nice cuddle we enjoyed in the private cabin on the Channel crossing was sufficient compensation. I don’t know. I didn’t ask.

He and I said ‘good night’ and ‘good morning’ to one another just before the sun rose, and Holmes returned to the cellar of 221 Baker Street, where his coffin was located and where his nature forced him to rest, and dream, from dawn to dusk every day.

I was so buoyed by excitement of being in a new place, a place I’d dreamt of, that I stored by luggage and had a lovely early morning stroll along the Seine. I also ate breakfast, twice, I must confess, at two different cafés before returning to the hotel to settle myself and take a much-needed restorative nap.

I set out in the late afternoon and reached my destination, as I hoped and planned, just as dusk was falling. I read the sign, and my heart sank.

It was normal, I reassured myself, one disappointment meant the rest of trip would be golden.

“Watson?”

I turned. “Oh, Holmes, we’ve got our dates all wrong.”

“How is that?”

“It’s closed to visitors. It’s being painted. Once every seven years,” I grumbled. “We would pick the seventh.”

“O ye of little faith, my dear Watson.” Holmes reached and pulled my muffler about my neck in a hen-like gesture. Then he looked about. “Let’s find a place where we can be somewhat inconspicuous.”

I’d forgotten I was on holiday with a flying creature.

When Holmes bid, I pinched my eyes and hung on, and not until he spoke again did I relax.

“All right, my man. Open your eyes.”

“Oh, Holmes!” There was the City of Light spread out below us. “It’s beautiful. Magnificent! Just like a dream.”

We were hovering like phantoms at the top of Eiffel’s tower.

I clung to Holmes, and he pressed his lips to my forehead.

* * *

The nighttime rambles with Holmes through the neighbourhoods of Paris were an adventure in and of themselves. I drank absinthe with sugar while Holmes engaged in debates with café philosophers. Holmes pretended to drink wine while I listened to poets build their rhymes out loud and on command. We broke up a few fights. We saved a few lost souls from tipping into the Seine. But mostly we walked and admired the city and its inhabitants.

One night, I commissioned a rendering of Holmes in oils from an artist who appeared to be on the point of genuine starvation. The artist in question was so grateful he took me in his arms and, after a few sets of kisses on each cheek, proceeded to lead me into the street in a kind of stumbling waltz. And Holmes, far from being jealous, responded by seizing the moment and quickly paying a café musician handsomely for the temporary use of his accordion.

Holmes stepped out into the street and serenade us, providing so splendid an accompaniment, that coins were thrown at our feet. The coins went to my dance partner, and the portrait of Holmes became one of my most treasured possessions.


	24. Jewel/Rush/Spark (Gen.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Length:** 1000  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **For:** DW slashficlet prompts 27. Jewel, 28. Rush, 31. Spark  
>  **Summary:** Watson tries to thwart an art theft and gets dropped in the Parisian catacombs.

Holmes had very crude ideas about art, so I took advantage of our days apart to visit museums and galleries.

Little did I know that when I visited one museum, the largest and most famous in the city, I was in for an adventure of a different sort altogether, one that I had not expected but which was, nevertheless, somewhat familiar to me by then.

It all began with a painting, whose name and creator I won’t mention. It was one that I regarded as the jewel of the museum’s collection. My opinion, however, was not shared by most of the populous. The crowds thronged to a very different painting in the same room, while I stood in front of my favourite, admiring it like a bashful sweetheart.

I was the one fish turned and swimming in the opposite direction of the school.

With time, the room grew more and more crowded, to the point that I was forced to move. I was about to move from the room altogether when someone started waxing poetic, at the top of his lungs, in fact, about the Famous Painting. All eyes, including those of the lone security guard, were fixed on the impromptu orator, but mine were still, though at a considerable distance and at an side angle, fixed on my favourite.

It was then that I watched, with horror and disbelief, as a person placed himself in front of my favourite and then, with a speed and sleight of hand I wouldn’t have even noticed had not I spent much of my time with a nightwalker, proceed to peel the canvas from the frame, stick the roll under his shirt, replaced the removed canvas with a second canvas, and smooth the latter into place.

The thief sauntered out of the room as the poet reached the end of his recitation and the crowd clapped.

I blinked. I scarcely trusted my eyes and my mind, but my hackles were up. I did not spare a single thought for the forgery that had been left behind. I sprang to follow the thief.

I spotted him and sniffed the air, trying to catch his scent on the wind, but I realised it was much easier for my _were_ nose to follow the painting itself.

So I did. I followed painting and thief out of the museum, onto the street, and into a waiting lorry.

* * *

It all happened in a rush. There was no time to do anything. No time tell anyone what had happened, alert anyone to the theft or the danger, no time to scribble a note to be delivered to someone who might alert some member of law and order.

I managed to read and memorise the number of the lorry itself, but what good was that to do me alone?

The gang was not happy to have an interloper.

I tussled in the back of the lorry with no fewer than three adversaries. The fourth, I noted, was the one with the painting itself. He was rapidly changing costume.

I fought hard but they were too many. They overwhelmed me.

The lorry stopped and I made to shout, to escape, to free myself but the burliest of them held me while one of the three opened a panel in the floor and another reached down to lift a heavy lid.

The last thing I remember before a blinding blow to the back of the head and overwhelming darkness me was being dropped like a sack of potatoes straight into the bowels of the city.

So much for art appreciation, I thought.

* * *

I woke disoriented.

Where was I?

I forced my eyes open and allowed them time to adjust to the inky darkness. Thank goodness for lupin vision. Or maybe not. When I could see clearly, I did see very clearly.

Skulls and bones. Packed in neat walls.

Then it all came back to me.

I was in Paris and these must be the famous catacombs. I’d read that workers had toiled two years, filling old stone quarries beneath the city with cemeteries-worth of remains. They’d used the fat of the corpses that had not rotted away to make soap and candles.

I remembered my own recent history, too. I had tried to be a hero and foil an art thief single-handedly and for my efforts, I’d got a solid knock on the back of the head as well as been dropped through the back of a lorry into the catacombs.

How long had I been out? Would Holmes be looking for me? If it were dark, I knew that Holmes would be looking for me, and he would be very cross at not finding me. But would he have any clue as to what had happened to me? I could not even remember if I’d told him specifically what I would be doing that day.

Museums and galleries. Macaroons and eclairs.

Oh, poor, poor Holmes!

I raised my nose and sniffed. I got to my feet and stepped carefully towards the freshest scent; air meant freedom.

My progress was painfully slow. More than once I had to brace myself, placing my hand on a bony head or femur for purchase. Neither the bones nor the close quarters of the tunnel bothered me, but I could not rid myself of the nagging dread that I’d been buried alive and might be joining the fellows and lasses that lined the walls if I couldn’t find an exit.

And what would poor Holmes think? He’d been dreadfully worried. And extremely cross if we didn’t reach each other in time.

I sighed and trudged on.

But then I heard a squeak. A definite squeak. It was followed by another and another.

And the squeak, and its brethren squeaks, ignited a spark in me, the spark of a idea that with a puff of hope and a breath of cunning fanned into a flame that things might not be as dire for me as I’d thought.


	25. Need/Home (Gen).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Length:** 600  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **For:** DW slashficlets prompts 26. Need, 30. Home  
>  **Summary:** Watson is rescued from the catacombs, and the Parisian holiday comes to an end.

Scores of tiny murine eyes were staring at me and nodding their heads. Despite my atrocious French, I thought I’d got my point across. The mention of _fromage_ had done a world of good.

“I need your help, and I cannot stress enough how well you will be compensated if you succeed.”

They were closing words. After I made them, few stayed with me, but most scattered.

Eventually, I saw the light, and my heart lifted.

“Watson?!”

“I’m here!”

Footsteps fell faster and echoed louder.

Finally, I saw him, and I sighed a loud, wonderful sigh of relief.

“Oh, thank goodness!” breathed Holmes. He looked down. “Thank you, my friends. You do your ilk proud, and should any of you decide to immigrate, well, the welcome carpet will be rolled out and laden with trove.”

As Holmes and I embraced, the long-tailed creatures flowed around us and formed a three-deep ring. I could definitely detect a cheering quality to their squeaks that hadn’t been there before.

“They say there are three rats for every one Parisian resident,” I remarked. “And is it just me or do they seem to be urging us to kiss?”

“Everything is more romantic in the City of Light, Watson.”

We kissed. Then I pulled back.

“How ever did you find me, Holmes?”

“It was difficult. I don’t think I would’ve been able to do it without our friends here. I needed them for the final leg.”

“Cheese for all!” I cried.

A tiny roar went up.

“And sardines!” I added. Looking down, I thought they might be dancing.

Holmes laughed. “Come on, let’s reward our helpers and get the whole story out of you. I think the Parisian police and the museum officials will want words with you as well.”

We left, arm-in-arm, with escorts.

* * *

We stayed in Paris for three more days, assisting the Parisian police in wrapping up the case and succeeding in getting my favourite painting restored to its place in the museum.

By the end of the fourth day, I had enjoyed many walks along the Seine and many lively café conversations which ran into the wee hours of the morning. I had sampled many tasty dishes and downed not a few glasses of absinthe with sugar. Holmes had sat for his portrait, too, and I’d been thrilled with the result.

“Holmes,” I said on the evening of the fourth day.

“Are you ready to go home, Watson?”

“Yes. London is calling. The hamper of gifts for Mrs. Hudson is full to bursting. I shall have to get my shoes re-soled upon return what with all the walking I’ve done. I have done everything thing I wanted to do thrice over and filled my memory-book. It has been a dream come true. Thank you for everything.”

Holmes inclined his head. “I booked you on the first train in the morning. I hope you’re not disappointed that I shan’t be accompanying you on the return, but if you should happen to run across a band of violent smugglers on your way, please, for the love of me, don’t try to tackle them yourself!”

I nodded, then shrugged with a sheepish grin. “I’ll try, but I don’t like making promises I might not keep.”

“Fair enough. Any final requests?”

“Well, I do have some ideas of how we might enjoy our last night in Paris.”

“I like them already.”

“But, first, well, would you indulge me?”

“Always. What is it?”

“Can we go to the top of the Eiffel Tower again?”

“Of course.” He put his hand in mine and tugged. “Come on.”


	26. Orange. Warning: mention of child sex work, mention of murder.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** Orange  
>  **Rating:** Teen  
>  **Length:** 500  
>  **Warnings:** Mention of child sex work, mention of murder.  
>  **For:** DW Slashficlets prompt .34: orange and DW Holmes Minor November prompt: bells.  
>  **Summary:** Holmes recounts the night's events, concerning a case of stolen cloves.

“It was the bells that put the authorities onto her,” said Holmes.

“Bells?”

It was the wee small hours of the morning, the darkness before dawn. I was in my armchair, gripping a neat whiskey. Holmes was in his armchair, pretending to nurse a soda water.

“It wasn’t enough for her to steal valuable shipments of spices from the docks.”

“Cloves,” I clarified. Holmes had reeked of nothing else for three days.

“Cloves,” he agreed, “which the young Miss Maisie Match pressed into oranges. The oranges she tied with ribbon and sold as seasonal ornamentation. She made her mistake in stealing a portion of a toymaker’s inventory, small bells, to add flourish at the bottom of each artifact.”

I hummed. “Sounds a charming item.”

“I thought you’d think so.” Holmes produced a brown-studded globe laced with tartan ribbon. There was a spring of holly at the top and a small bell at the bottom. He handed it to me. “Gentle.”

My nose twitched. Through the haze of cloves, a singular aroma struck me.

“Holmes…”

“She was spotted stealing the bells, and it was short work to track her down after that. A slip of a girl, really.”

“You didn’t scare her, did you, Holmes?”

Holmes chuckled. “Not in the least. She thought I was customer. As well I might have been.”

“Holmes…”

“I got to her before the police, and with candor and a promise of assistance, I persuaded her to tell me the truth. Hers was a sad but common story. She is an orphan who drained to the city, specifically into the care of extended relatives who, let us say, did not have her best interest at heart. She frequented the dock area, not only to steal the cloves, but also for other supplies. When a sailor showed interest in renting or appropriating her body, she led him to an abandoned abattoir.”

“Holmes!” I gasped.

“Her father was a butcher by trade.” 

“Wait, she thought you were a customer?”

“For her oranges. Her _blood_ oranges.” 

I ogled the fragrant orb in my hand.

“She has a sizable list of customers, Watson. It isn’t only humans who like to celebrate this time of year. Nightwalkers, while not really known for being the jolliest sort, do, on occasion, like to…” He coughed.

“Spice things up?” I supplied, handing him back the orange, whose bell, I thought, made a somewhat sinister tinkling now.

“Yes.”

“And Miss Maisie Match is human?”

“Very much so.”

“Enthralled?”

“No, just enterprising. I helped her with the riskier aspects of her business plan.”

“Oh, Holmes, you didn’t!”

“And put the police off her scent.”

I huffed. “No small feat, I’m certain, given how pungent it was!” I shook my head. “Well, I suppose I can’t judge given my night.”

“Yes, just where you have been? Your boots and coat and cuffs tell me you didn’t arrive much before I did.”

“Would you believe it was a case similar to yours?”

“Oh?”

“But concerning mince _meat_ pies.” 


	27. Snowlight.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson frolics in the snow by the light of a full moon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First 100 words were written for DW Advent Drabbles prompt 04: yeti and DW 100words prompt 219: monster and the rest for DW Watson's Woes December prompt: light and DW slashficlets prompt #38: holiday.

The hotel room was as comfortable as I remembered, but I only had eyes for the falling snow. By tomorrow there would be a thick blanket on the ground, the perfect element for a full moon frolic through the vast woods nearby.  
  
Holmes waltzed in. “I’m afraid you made yourself known last year, Watson.”  
  
“What?”  
  
He held up a local newspaper and pointed.  
  
“’ _Will our snow monster return this Christmas?_ ’” I read. “But that drawing looks nothing like me!”  
  
Holmes snatched up a pen from the desk, scribbled, and held it up again.  
  
“Better?”  
  
The monster had a moustache.  
  
“Rude!”

* * *

By the light of the full moon, I frolicked in the snow.

The rolling hills, now blanketed white and bearing a hoary glow, seemed made for sprints as well as full throttle leaps and bounds. I scampered through dense forest, my thick furry paws barely brushing the frigid ground. I raced all the way to the foot of the mountains, then turned round and headed back in the direction of the hotel with equal fervour.

I crisscrossed the picture postcard landscape, challenging invisible rivals to tests of speed and agility. I chased my own tail until I was dizzy. I yipped my joy and howled my delight.

In short, I was having a lovely holiday.

I was lapping up a chilly drink at a stream when I heard the sound.

Dogs.

Following my instincts, I made to move away, but then the sounds changed.

It was no longer the quick but steady crunch of the paws of a team of dogs running through the snow, nor was there anymore the light slicing of sled rails through the frosty earth.

There erupted two human cries, one of surprise cry followed by one of pain and then a veritable canine chorus.

I raced towards the noise.

As I approached the scene, I saw a sled turned on its side and its driver lying motionless on the snow. My eyes followed the sled tracks to a large boulder peeking out of whiteness some distance away.

The sled dogs surrounded their driver as best they could, still strapped in their harnesses.

I barked.

The dogs turned.

I kept barking.

The dogs greeted me with concerned yaps and whines. Not one challenged me, probably because I was more than a head taller and a few stone heavier than the largest of them.

I licked the blood from the driver’s head wound. Then I went to the sled and nudged it upright. With my teeth pinching his coat, I managed to drag the driver to the sled. I used my muzzle to lift him clumsily onto the bed of the sled atop some well-strapped boxes and bundles.

I barked again.

Understanding the command, the dogs readied themselves and then with another bark, we were off.

We were doing fine, the dogs leading the way and me trotting beside them and barking encouragement, until what must’ve been the last bend. I smelled the chimneys puffing.

The driver rolled and fell off the sled onto the snow. The dogs, impatient creatures, kept going. No doubt to them it was more important to get home than to worry about any missing cargo. 

Digging around the driver and then creeping flat, I crafted a ramp and rolled him onto my back. I rose gingerly on my four legs. He was a light burden, all things considered, but a slightly awkward one.

Following the tracks of the sled, I finished the journey at a slow and careful trot.

“What?” a voice cried out. “Where’s George?”

I dropped George at the gate and howled.

“Wolf!” the voice cried.

Amid the cacophony of dogs barking, each retelling the story in its own style, I turned on my heels and ran as fast as I could back the way I’d come, bathing myself in shimmery snowlight until dawn.

* * *

I slept for a very long time the following morning. The days were at their shortest, however, and Holmes was able to join me for a late afternoon tea. That is, he appeared in the lobby when I had finished my second cup and left nothing but crumbs on my plate and was well into my book by a roaring fire, the magnificent kind you only find at such lodgings during the winter.

The light of the fire gave a deceptively human flush to Holmes’s cheeks as he loomed over me smiling.

He took the seat beside me and leaned forward. 

“My dear Watson,” he said in a soft voice, “if you wanted to keep a low profile in these parts, that was not the way to do it!”

“I was a Good Samaritan, Holmes.” 

“I know!” He leaned back and opened an afternoon paper. “I’ll wager by next Christmas there’s a shrine erected to you!”


	28. Writing on Smoke (A Case of Identity. Gen.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** Writing on the Smoke  
>  **'Verse:** ACD AU  
>  **Length:** 800  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Characters:** Holmes the vampire, Watson the werewolf, an ophthalmologist named Doyle, and Miss Mary Sutherland (A Case of Identity)   
> **Notes:** For the February Watson's Woes prompt: missive and for the Flash Fiction DAY 2 prompt: 'smoke hung so thick in the library’s rafters that she could read words in them.' POV Mary Sutherland.   
> **Summary:** [I've written it 1000 times, here's the 1001st.] Mary Sutherland learns the truth.

She thought smoke hung so thick in the library’s rafters that she could read words in them, bizarre words in a wild pattern, but she must have been mistaken, she must have been letting her romantic, lovesick imagination run away with her.   
  
She realised she had been woolgathering when she heard her mother’s voice, as sharp as the click of knitting needles.  
  
“Mary?”  
  
“Yes, mother?”  
  
“There’s a doctor to see you.”  
  
“Oh, yes.” It hurt Mary to hold her tongue in front of her mother, but the doctor’s instructions had been clear and firm.

* * *

“Mary? Mary!”  
  
“Pay her no mind, Miss Sutherland.” The avuncular squeeze of my arm gave me the courage required to not look back or heed my mother’s call. “We are going to see a colleague of mine, Doyle. He is a clever chap and knowledgeable in his field but, frankly, far too idle than is good for him. Your consultation will benefit him as much as it does you.”  
  
“I have not had a new pair of eyeglasses in ages, Doctor.”  
  
“That must be remedied at once, my dear.”

* * *

To distract myself from the discomfort and tedium of the examination, I asked Doctor Watson the questions which lay heavy on my mind.   
  
“Does Mister Holmes often consult clients in a reading room of the library of Saint James Square?”   
  
“No, but a certain misadventure of his rendered our quarters unsuitable for consultation yesterday evening, and the ghosts,” Doctor Watson coughed, “that is to say, the spirited proprietors of Saint James Square always are willing to accommodate Holmes given the number of services he has afforded them personally and the increased circulation numbers that he has indirectly generated their establishment.”   
  
“Circulation numbers? Do you mean people have been inspired by Mister Holmes into wanting to study how to become a detective?”   
  
“What? Uh, yes!” Doctor Watson looked surprised and relieved. “Yes, that is precisely it. They want to best Holmes at his own game. To put it strongly, they want to drive a stake through the heart of his business, and that library has an extensive collection of works on that subject.”   
  
“Interesting. I think I must have tired Mister Holmes last night.”  
  
“Indeed? How so, my dear?”  
  
“Well, after I explained the details about my betrothed’s disappearance, he seemed to grow weary all of a sudden.”   
  
“Oh, no, that is his pensive expression. He was not weary, he was thoughtful. Always thinking, Mister Holmes, thinking, thinking, thinking—”   
  
“—thinking that the ol’ boy wasn’t a genuine shape-shifter after all, just a cad on the make, so not worth his nightwalking time,” muttered the ophthalmologist under his breath from the other side of the curious apparatus into which I was staring, dry-eyed.  
  
“Doyle!” Doctor Watson’s cough was more a bark and a censorious one at that.  
  
“Doctor Watson, you will think me a fanciful creature,” I said, confused by their exchange but not swayed from my litany of inquiries.   
  
“Oh, my dear, I doubt it,” replied Doctor Watson, good-naturedly. “I’ve seen my share of fancies—”   
  
“I’ll say,” grumbled the ophthalmologist, making some notations on a piece of paper.  
  
“Oh, do be quiet, Doyle.”  
  
“As you wish, Doctor.”   
  
But _I_ wished they wouldn’t interrupt so! They seemed perfect gentlemen otherwise.   
  
“But Doctor Watson—”  
  
He appeared to be shooting daggers at the ophthalmologist, who appeared to be returning them, blade for blade. I touched the Doctor’s sleeve lightly, however, and he started and gave an apologetic snort.  
  
“—I thought, as Mister Holmes smoked his pipe, I saw the smoke from his pipe collect in the rafters of the library. It seemed to collect in clouds that were very thick, and I also thought, as incredible as it sounds, that I saw words written on those clouds.”   
  
“Really? A missive on smoke? Well, that is a first. And what did the words say, my dear.”  
  
“They said ‘Your stepfather assumed a disguise and wooed you as your fiancé. Your mother is complicit in the scheme. It is all to ensure that you continue to support them financially.’”  
  
The apparatus was pushed aside. “The writing on the smoke is the writing on the wall, miss. By three o’clock, your new specs will be ready, and you’ll be able to see things clearly.”  
  
“Let’s go for a walk, my dear, until then. I’ll tell you what you need to hear, and you can talk about what you want to do.”   
  
“I’m frightened, Doctor.”   
  
He took my hand in his and squeezed it. “Don’t be. I am your friend and will see you through this. And Holmes is your protector and any real nasty business he will take care of.”   
  
“Who’s going to take care of the bill?” piped the ophthalmologist.  
  
“Put it on my tab, _Doctor_.”  
  
“Yes, _Doctor_.”  
  
“Come, my dear.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
